


The Things I Don't Ask

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Absent Parents, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Cruel Intentions, Car Sex, Dorms, Drug Dealing, Drunk Sex, Growing Up Together, Harry is a Little Shit, M/M, Messy, OT5 Friendship, Recreational Drug Use, Rich Harry Styles, Rich Zayn Malik, Sexuality Crisis, Teenage Rebellion, Unresolved Sexual Tension, boys dealing with their problems in backwards ways, poor little rich boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 101,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foster Montgomery Preparatory School is a sight to behold. Beautiful buildings in front of a beautiful Appalachian backdrop, a rich history, behind wrought iron gates with the carefully chosen Latin motto at the very top: “strenuis ardua cedunt.”</p><p>“The heights yield to endeavor.”</p><p>The price tag for such a distinguished and revered institution, for tuition, room, and board is $56,250. A year.</p><p>A boarding school AU that features two boys who can never say how they really feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Do you remember much?"

**Author's Note:**

> I would be no where and nothing without Jasmine and Brittany.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy these two hot messes, once again. I'm happy to be back in the saddle.
> 
> xo, G

_“Everyone who keeps a secret, itches to tell it.” – Gillian Flynn_

 

 

The picturesque and regal Foster Montgomery Preparatory School is situated in the white mountains of New Hampshire, just outside of Plymouth. About 600 acres of land form its own oasis for the high school, including but not limited to academic buildings, dorms, a covered ice rink, ten tennis courts, and a new state of the art biology center. Two U.S. vice presidents have attended the prestigious boarding school, as well as a Secretary of State, a handful of Attorney Generals, and an Oscar winner. U.N. ambassadors, renowned lawyers, surgeons fighting new strains of diseases in countries all over the world, have all attended Foster Montgomery Preparatory School. Their pictures hang over the libraries and science labs built in their names.

The school is a sight to behold. Beautiful buildings in front of a beautiful Appalachian backdrop, a rich history, behind wrought iron gates with the carefully chosen Latin motto at the very top: _strenuis ardua cedunt._

“The heights yield to endeavor.”

The price tag for such a distinguished and revered institution, for tuition, room, and board is $56,250. A year.

That’s what Harry’s parents reminded him of, before the start of his freshmen year three years previously, when they ignored the glint in his eye, as their driver pulled through the front gate. His mother pressed at the new lines forming on her forehead, with a frown, while his father checked emails on his Blackberry, as if to basically say, _it’s very expensive dear, please don’t be like Gemma and get into any trouble, and if you do, call us before the school does._

And it’s what Harry thinks to himself now, as he cruises through the gate for his final year at Foster Montgomery and sees the new media arts center over near the Breckinridge building. Both the Paynes and Tomlinsons donated money the previous winter, to fund the installation of the theatre seats and orchestra pit, so their sons wouldn’t go before the disciplinary committee and inevitably be kicked out. It was a necessarily evil for many Foster Montgomery parents over the years, the donating of money for various infractions.

But honestly, the party in the woods last fall had _so_ been worth it.

Harry smiles and shifts gear. He wants to get a good spot near Morton Hall before all the annoying freshmen arrive with their parents and clog up the arrival lines.

Ever since that party and all the donated money, it’s been their class’s running joke anytime one of them does something to earn a demerit or something that _could_ earn them a demerit, should they get caught. “Fifty-six thousand and counting.” The price they pay, for tuition, board, anxiety, and fucked up family dynamics.

It’s like coming home again, as Harry grabs his belongings from the passenger seat of his most prized possession: his dad’s black 1956 Jaguar XK 140 Roadster. He’ll have to cover it soon, with the top canvas he absolutely loathes, since it means he won’t have the summer wind in his hair for much longer. But the top on his car means he’s back at school, with his friends, in the place he knows. And that makes it worth it. It’s all worth it, when he’s home again. _My thoughts create my world._ Harry breathes it in, each deep breath soaking in the feeling of contentment, like he’s practicing his yoga poses. It’s home, it’s going to be a good year, with or without Gemma to guide him. He languidly moves around classmates old and new with a smile on his face, towards his upper classmen dorm.

Per Gemma’s instructions, Harry made sure to request a specific room this year.

It’s no surprise when he arrives before Louis, so Harry tosses his bags to the wooden bed on the left. He then texts Gemma, his sister, mentor, the one who practically raised him, and swiftly gets to work. She had trained Harry well over the last few years, as her “apprentice” and “Styles-in-training,” but this is his first fall semester on his own. It’s weird to be without her, to not have his big sister to look after him, in case he fucks up. He knocks on the bedposts, to find which of the four contain the hollow spaces. Then he gets down on his hands and knees to open up the four drawers under his mattress, to reach up underneath them, to feel around for which of them have moveable compartments. Hiding places.

Those past Foster Montgomery Prep kids knew their shit, that’s for sure.

Right as Harry feels the wood panel above the last drawer on the right give way, where he’ll hide most of his stash and scales, he hears a key in the lock. He quickly grabs for the bag within his bag on the floor, and shoves it inside.

“Look who’s finally arrived,” Harry says with a smile, turning on his knees.

But it’s not Louis who walks through the door with a few handfuls of belongings. It’s not one of Harry’s best friends, with a gym bag stuffed with a soccer ball and cleats, his glasses pushed up on his head, a cigarette behind his ear because he doesn’t care if Wallace sees. Wallace never says shit to any of them, because of Harry's deal with Gemma.

Instead it’s Jack Darcy.

“Hey,” he says politely to Harry, kicking at the door behind him with his foot. Jack, thin, awkward in his movements, a mess of light feathered hair, sniffling from allergies. He heads towards the other bed, gently setting his stuff down. Harry notes the tennis racket among the pile, the way he’s already toeing off his Keds.

“Hey,” Harry says with a frown.

“How was your summer? Good? I was in Colorado for most of June with my dad and then had to be back east, home with my mom, for SAT prep. Been at it for weeks. I’m taking it again in October. Are you? Taking it again? What was your score?”

Harry gets to his feet, swiping at the dust on his jeaned knees.

“Wait,” he cuts him off, pointing to Jack, who is a reasonably nice person, albeit very boring and a total square.

Jack turns to him and waits.

“I thought I was rooming with Louis Tomlinson again this year.”

“My email said this was my room assignment,” Jack says robotically.

“That must be wrong.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“No,” Jack says easily. “And anyways, Mr. Groenenberg said to come here, when I saw him outside.”

Harry feels his right eye twitch a bit, an old tick he’s had since he was in junior high. He knows for a fact that he’s rooming with Louis this year, his last year, his senior year, because it was part of their plan. The party room. The fun room. It was Harry’s final and only year on his own, without Gemma, to run things. Louis was going to be his backup, the one to help run the numbers. It would be the best senior year this school has ever seen, their class a bunch of hell raisers. Harry and his friends tearing it up, like they have the last three years, their little group of boys chasing after girls, fucking off their study sessions and grades, side by side.

But first things first, Harry needs Louis as his roommate.

“I’ll talk to Wallace,” Harry says finally, heading towards the door. “I’ll get it sorted.”

“Good luck,” Jack says over his shoulder, before the door closes.

Harry hopes Jack doesn’t begin unpacking anytime soon, because it’d be a waste to have to pack it all up again to go find his real room.

He makes his way through Morton, one of the smaller dorms that houses some of the junior and senior students. The school’s enrollment sits at about 290, with the senior class at only 72 students. Even then, nine of them only come for the school day and then go home to their families every night and weekend. The rest board all week. It shouldn’t be too hard to find Wallace, even as more of his classmates start arriving.

He feels his phone in his pocket, already blowing up with texts from his regulars. First day back means first day jitters.

Wallace, ever the traffic controller, paces in front of the main Morton steps with a clipboard in his hand. In his very best Foster Montgomery royal blue polo and khakis, he calls out to a few other Resident Advisors as they pass and waves to a group of sophomores rolling luggage into Harry’s old dorm across the grass. Everyone at F.M. knows everyone, the place is so small, so even in the midst of his discomfort, Harry smiles and waves, too.

At the last second, before Wallace can turn around and say something first, Harry sneaks up on him.

“How’s my favorite guy,” Harry whispers.

Wallace Groenenberg almost falls over he jumps so high, gripping his chest like a little old lady in a silent film. He wheels around and stares at Harry with wide eyes, heaving.

“I _hate_ when you do that,” Wallace shrieks.

Harry smirks.

“Hi,” Wallace says, trying to measure his voice. He straightens his glasses and grips his clipboard between thin fingers. Harry takes in how the summer did absolutely nothing for his mid-thirties complexion, still as pale and pasty as ever, his thin, orange hair stuck to his sweaty forehead like it was painted on.

“Hello, _Wallace_ ,” Harry says, still smirking.

“Mr. Groenenberg,” Wallace tries to correct Harry, like he always does whenever they haven’t seen each other in a while. Wallace tries to keep up the façade that their relationship is as it should be, as teacher/student, especially in front of other people.

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Why is Jack Darcy in my room?”

“He’s your roommate,” Wallace says, looking off towards the school’s entrance, as more cars make their way in through the gate.

“No.”

“Everything I have here says Darcy-Styles.”

“Where the hell is Louis, then?” Harry says, starting to get annoyed.

Wallace looks down at his clipboard.

“Second floor,” he says indifferently. “Rooming with Zayn Malik this year.”

Harry has started to lose his patience. And Harry doesn’t have much patience to begin with, even on a good day. He gets that from his mother.

“Since when does Zayn live on campus?”

“Since now, I guess.”

Harry folds his arms across his chest, his white t-shirt starting to stick to his back in the September heat. Wallace continues to help students into the dorm, directing them to their rooms. A few of the junior girls Harry sells to give him kisses on the cheek and pinch his ass, which say much more than their words ever could. Cody Ornish, the captain of one of the spring sports (Harry can’t remember which), actually slips him a few bills straight away, as they shake hands right there in front of Wallace, for later.

And because Wallace is absolutely terrified of the Styles siblings, and most of the students in general, he pretends not to notice.

But Harry isn’t quite done with him yet.

“Why aren’t we rooming together?” he asks quietly, reaching for the door to head back into the dorm. He can see from Wallace’s clipboard that both Louis and Zayn have arrived.

Wallace looks down at the list.

“Says Tomlinson requested Malik,” he says.

Harry frowns.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” Wallace says quietly, looking up at Harry. “Please don’t… make my job more difficult. If Tomlinson’s father makes a request, it just… it happens, and you can’t change it.”

“I’m aware of that,” Harry says. “And just so long as you continue with your deal with Gemma, I would never make your job more difficult.”

Wallace’s entire face reddens, his cheeks flaring, like they do whenever someone mentions his under-the-table deal outright. How Gemma Styles, as a lowly freshmen a few years back, blackmailed him into it because she’s a fucking genius. And since Harry absolutely loves to embarrass people, he savors the moment and smiles. Their relationship will always favor Harry’s upper hand, and they both know it.

“Catch you later, _Wally_ ,” Harry says with a wink, disappearing through the door like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Harry has a good poker face.

He runs a hand through his hair and quickly makes his way down the hallway, towards the stairs that lead towards the second floor. It doesn’t take him long to pass only a various open doors, filled with his classmates and a few stray parents, to find two of his good friends tucked together in their new room.

Louis Tomlinson, a sight for sore eyes, in all of his tanned, bronzed glory, lounges on one of the beds while Zayn perches on a desk chair in the opposite corner. Their room is already a mess of shit, clothes and shoes, their unpacking due to wait until probably mid-March.

Louis laughs at something Zayn says, who looks just as gorgeous as always: chiseled jaw, facial hair Harry’s always envied. His hair is longer, shinier. But he’s thinner. Face a bit more pinched.

To announce himself, Harry clears his throat. Both boys startle a bit and look up at him. At the very next moment, he feels about seventeen pairs of hands come at him from behind, pinching the life out of his sides and love handles.

“Finally,” Niall huffs out a laugh, moving Harry out of his way to throw himself and his backpack onto Zayn’s empty bed.

“We’ve been here hours,” Liam agrees, sitting next to Louis. He’s wearing a princess birthday crown, surely a gift from Niall. They always just miss his summer birthday, and have to celebrate in other ways their first weekend back.

Niall and Liam have shared a room since freshmen year, when they were randomly placed together. It was a match made in bro heaven, and the rest was history. They both probably showed up at seven in the morning, just because they could.

“Someone going to tell me what’s going on, then?” Harry says first thing, hands on his hips, looking around at his friends.

It’s not like Louis to switch something like this on Harry, of all people. Harry usually needs to prepare himself for shit. It’s pretty well known among them that Harry doesn’t like to change his day-to-day routine much. Once he’s set in his way about something, he doesn’t deviate from the path. It’s why over the summer, his weekly Skype date with Liam happened every Thursday morning at exactly eleven, after they both had a run. It’s why Niall made sure to text Harry every time there was a chance of heavy storms up on the Cape, that he was “fine,” just in case Harry saw the news alert on his phone and freaked out over Niall possibly being out on his dad’s boat.

It’s why Louis fucking Tomlinson was supposed to be his roommate, again, because Harry likes having Louis fucking Tomlinson as a roommate. Because Louis understands that Harry likes having certain things in his life just so, and also, because Harry is a drug dealer, and Louis never minded that little detail.

Gemma always said, when dealing drugs, it’s important to have a supportive roommate.

For some reason, before Louis can answer, Harry’s eyes are drawn over to Zayn. Of all the boys, Zayn is the one Harry is least close to. As one of the very few F.M. students who never boarded at boarding school, because his family home was so close by, the camaraderie that comes with close living quarters got lost a bit in translation. The late night studying, the after-hours partying right down the hall from the R.A.s, the drinking and pill popping to stay awake, it wasn’t as ingrained in his relationship with Zayn.

Zayn’s cool, though. The five of them spent almost every day together during school hours, they've taken vacations and weekends together, and yes, he was always up for a good laugh. Harry really would consider him a great friend. But it’s just not… the same.

Zayn meets Harry’s eyes briefly and then looks away.

Louis, never one to miss an opportunity to smack Liam in the dick, gets him good. And then he stands up to get close to Harry, to fuck up his hair.

“You mad?” he says quietly, as the boys get the sense to talk loudly amongst themselves.

“Yes,” Harry admits.

“Look, it’s like this…” Louis says, hands on his hips, brow furrowed. “Zayn… He’s never lived on campus before, yeah? And this year… This year he has to stay here. And I think it’d be best if he stayed with me.”

Harry folds his arms over his chest.

“I don’t understand. He lives like, five minutes away.”

He can feel himself pouting like a fucking child, which is ridiculous. It’s his first Gemma-less year, his first year by himself. He needed Louis. It’s his chance to be something, to be better, as the only Styles on campus people can rely on for their shit: to get through their classes, to get out of their heads, to party when they need the release. They need him. And he needs to buck up. Why does Zayn Malik, son of Malik Enterprises with his own _guest house_ the size of a mansion five minutes up the road, have to ruin his first day?

“Zayn needs to stay here this year, with me,” Louis says with a firmer voice, staring at Harry. “And I need you to get that.”

Louis rarely gets firm and he rarely gives this much of a shit about anything. Harry blinks at him, at a slight loss.

So it only takes about three more seconds for Harry to give up and roll his eyes. He won’t be a dick.

“Fine,” he says, stepping back and opening himself up the room of boys. “Zayn, just so you know, Louis is an asshole who will steal all of your boxers. And he snores.”

“ _You_ snore,” Louis practically yells, hitting Harry in the nuts.

Harry smirks and grabs for Louis, to put him in a headlock. Zayn laughs from his chair, hands wringing slightly, like he gets when he’s a bit nervous. But the tension he held in his shoulder blades has started to ease. And even if Harry doesn’t quite like that between the five of them, he’s the odd-man-out within the dorm, he’ll just have to deal with it. As Wallace said, there’s nothing to be done. Louis asked about as nicely as he could, in his own Louis-like way, for Harry to please let it be.

So Harry sends Zayn a wink, to say they’re good, as Louis squirms away from him and calls him a twat.

“Now boys,” Niall interrupts them, reaching into the bag he brought. “Since it took young Harold here about a decade to arrive, I hope it’s not warm…”

He pulls out a handle of vodka. It’s still frosty on the sides, clearly pulled from the deep freezer he keeps in his closet at home. Liam the little worker bee that he is, knows what comes next. He leaps up to grab the red solo cups from within the bag and begins throwing them at all of their faces.

Louis rolls his eyes like he’s annoyed, but they all know he loves it, as he gestures for them all to gather round, to stand in a circle in the middle of the room. So they do. They know their Niall, and they know what’s coming.

“Zayn, this has been our tradition since sophomore year,” Niall continues, pouring shots into the cups they all hold out, giving a solemn, sincere look, “first day in our rooms.”

“Uh, yeah,” Zayn says with a knowing smirk. “You all show up to class two days later, _still_ hung over and tell me all about it. Remember?”

Zayn, when his dad dropped him off on his way into the conglomerate of whatever it is the hell their company does, actually brought them breakfast the year before on their first day of classes, prepared by his sisters’ nannies, which Niall full well knows.

But Niall gives Zayn a look anyways, that says _Jesus, just let me give my speech, that’s part of the fun of it, okay?_

Harry has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing. They all know how much Niall enjoys a tradition, a speech, a here-here. He loves a campfire story, a toast before a big event. Niall will be at all of their future weddings, holding a microphone, telling their brides and receptions at large about their early days in these very halls. The one to christen their first boats with broken champagne bottles and shout _L'Chaim!_ when they have their first babies.

It’s best to just let him roll with it, once he’s started.

“Now that we have Zayn with us all the time, now that we’re all here, together for one final ride… this is going to be the best fucking senior year this place has ever seen,” Niall says, looking into each of their faces.

“Amen,” Harry says, hitting his plastic cup against Zayn’s.

Zayn smiles at them.

Niall makes it so all of their cups knock together.

“So here’s to us. Our senior year. Before graduation and the Ivys we all head off to, before we’re old and boring, we have one more year. This year, to be young and alive, in the same place. May it be full of booze, Harry’s good stash, and enough pussy to go around.”

“And for the love of god,” Liam says with a groan, “no getting caught.”

“Amen!” Louis says louder, crossing himself.

“Fifty-six and counting,” Zayn says with a smirk.

“Fifty-six,” they agree as a group, laughing together.

“Slàinte, boys,” Niall finishes, nodding for them to drink. They all tip back their cups, hissing at various intervals at the disgusting bite only vodka can bring. “Salud.”

Harry nearly vomits his shot right back into his cup. He hates the taste of pure vodka. But he does it for Niall, and for their tradition. As the handle of liquor starts going around again though, he sort of wishes he could pass on it.

Zayn catches his eye a few minutes later, as they settle around the room to do a proper First Day “Day Drink.” Zayn has started to unpack his belongings, from the massive pile near his bed. It’s not the standard few bags, or even the box or two some kids tend to ship to themselves if they come to Foster Montgomery from states or countries away. It’s like Zayn’s a freshman, new to the whole experience. He brought his entire life with him.

Harry smiles at him, to assure Zayn that he’s really not pissed to be Louis-less for the year.

Zayn smiles back.

One of the other boys punches Niall in the dick, his yell piercing the room, and the moment is lost.

 

***

 

Harry grew up on 61st Street, off Park Avenue in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He went to some of the finest schools money can buy. To this day his mother still rubs elbows with Kennedys. His father donates money to the Met every year, so Harry and Gemma always make sure to beg him for invites to the best galas and after parties. It’s where they learned from their cousins, and other family friends, how to not only procure the best drugs, but how to distribute them correctly. Gemma and Harry both learned that without access to their trust funds until they each turned twenty-one, it’s really the best option for uninterrupted spending money. Upper East Side kids, as well as F.M. students, get what they need from each other. They also know how to take care of their own.

Harry’s world, and the world of his friends, is very much a tight-knit community built on the backs of children who grew up too quickly.

Gemma and Harry learned from a very early age how to navigate their way around the city: underground on the subway, up and down the river’s edge, across the park, and through lavish buildings. Harry is good with direction, good with getting in and out of his bedroom window undetected lest his mother or the maid hear him drunkenly stumbling up the fire escape, and he’s especially good at opening condoms with his teeth.

Escape routes, side entrances, locked doors.

So it’s quite the surprise to Harry that he can’t seem to grasp the concept of getting into his goddamn room that night without a key or Louis to assist him.

Harry slaps at the old brass handle of his new door, with the number 5 carved into the wood, and wonders if he’ll make it inside. He sways on the spot, his hair limp and sticking to his face and neck, as a boy from another room yells at him for making noise in the hall, at whatever the fuck time it is. It’s probably Dominic or Brady Powers or Yancy Urena.

“Fuck off,” Harry mumbles to no one.

If he still had Louis as a roommate, this wouldn’t be an issue. They would’ve had their annual first shot, and all the following drinks, in _their_ room. The other boys would’ve been the ones to go off to their dorms, stumbling to their beds, texting girls to suck their dicks. Harry would be face first in his pillow right now, instead of knocking on the door of a stranger, of Jack _fucking_ Darcy, who is so _lame_ and boring and straight laced. He’s from fucking _Denver_ , for Christ’s sake. Who lives in Denver?

“Jack,” Harry moans, his face up against the wood of the door, giving up. “Let me in.”

Jack does not let Harry in.

A few more knocks and it’s still no use. Harry still can’t seem to get himself into his room. If he keeps it up, someone will call Wallace on him and he can’t be so brazen about his special treatment, what with his too-long hair and his carelessness when it comes to the dress code. He can’t be _that_ obvious with his Wallace tie, especially on the first night.

So Harry exhales and peels his face off of the door, to stumble his way back down the hall, up the stairs, towards the room he came from earlier. He probably reeks of vodka and Liam’s weed. He may even have some bud in his hair, from when he tripped and fell over onto Zayn’s bed and landed on the pipe. Amy, Ruth, and Maureen had all come up to the floor to see some of the senior boys, drifting in and out of each room, and Mo had picked some from Harry’s shirt with red fingernails.

It’s with another face full of door that Harry huffs another exasperated breath and kicks out a foot.

“Lou,” he mumbles into it, the hall lights luckily dimmed. “Zayn. Lemme in.”

A few seconds later, the door begins to move. Harry almost falls forward, but he catches himself on the frame just in time.

It’s Zayn, in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, staring at him with one eye.

“Why aren’t you in your room?” he says quietly, drunk, exhausted.

“Jack’s a dick.”

“True.”

“Let me in.”

“You get the floor.”

“Fantastic. I love the floor. We’re in love,” Harry says with a smile, wiggling his hips. He pushes past Zayn into the mess of a room and almost trips over a pair of jeans. “I could kiss the floor.”

Harry falls over, his kneecaps cracking into the wood a little too hard for a sober person, but just the right amount for a drunk teenager, and lands on his back. And because Zayn Malik is a saint, even in his own drunk stupor, he stands over Harry and holds out his hands, palms up.

Harry throws his arms out to his sides, swimming in a pool of his friends’ clothing, and laughs. Because like all of Harry’s best friends, Zayn remembered.

Harry Styles can sleep anywhere, at any time, in any sort of condition: dressed, undressed, in a bed, on the floor, in the eye of a hurricane, outside on the grass near the headmaster’s quarters even. He doesn’t need a mattress or a fancy pillow. He doesn’t need a blanket, or a tent, or a friend, a warm body next to him. He certainly doesn’t need the feeling of “home” or the comfort of having his mother down the hall, like some kids do. Harry can practically fall asleep at will, if he tries hard enough.

Just so long as he has his boots off.

He kicks his legs up so his feet land into Zayn’s waiting palms.

"We're so glad you're here, you know," Harry sighs, eyes getting heavy as Zayn undoes the straps of Harry's massive Saint Laurent boots.

“Might as well be flippers,” Zayn huffs a laugh as response, finally tugging both boots off. Harry wore his good socks, thank god.

“You know what they say about big feet,” Harry smiles. The moonlight filters in through the wooden blinds just so, and Harry can tell that Zayn is smiling too.

“Shut the fuck up, Harry,” Louis groans from under his pillow across the room.

Just for that, when Zayn heads back to his bed to settle back into it, Harry takes one of his massive Saint Laurent boots and throws it at the wall above Louis’s head. As planned, it scares the ever-living shit out of him.

Harry falls asleep laughing to himself, using a pile of Zayn’s wrinkled t-shirts as a pillow.

 

***

 

Once he’s gained entry back into his room, life runs a tad more smoothly for Harry. F.M. students tend to keep their doors open on the weekends, to filter in and out as they please when they don’t have classes, sports, or clubs to attend. So Harry schlepped his way back down to his room the next morning before senior orientation and walked right in, to see Jack hanging the last of his clothes up in his closet.

“Really?” Harry said woefully, scratching at his dirty hair. “There’s no way you didn’t hear me knocking.”

“You were drunk.”

“And?”

“If I saw you drunk, then that would mean I was an accessory. And if you had gotten into some trouble last night and Mr. Groenenberg had asked me, ‘Did you see Harry Styles wasted out of his mind? Were you aware that he was impaired?’ And then I would’ve had to say, ‘Yes, I did.’ And I really didn’t want to have to say that.”

Harry stared at his roommate, at Jack fucking Darcy, the lamest fucking person on the planet. Because he honestly couldn’t believe his ears.

“And for that matter,” Jack nodded towards Harry’s bed, to the bottom drawer on the right and its hidden compartment, “I have no idea what you have in there. I never want to hear about it, see it, be a witness to it, or in any way be apart of it. If I’m in the room, it doesn’t exist.”

Harry blinked.

“If I don’t see it, I don’t have to lie about it.”

Harry’s eye did that twitch again, but it wasn’t entirely unfair.

And that’s how Jack and Harry came to their current agreement, about Harry’s extracurricular activities. If Harry needed to sell outright from their room, he had to do it when Jack wasn’t around. And if Jack was around, Harry had to give him proper verbal notice to get lost for a bit. They weren’t to talk about it in mixed company, through text, or near Wallace. Even though many students knew that Wallace knew what Harry did, Jack found it to be distasteful.

Harry also figured he’d have the backup of his friends’ rooms anytime he needed them, seeing as how Louis and Zayn owed him big time, and he provided Niall and Liam with enough free weed over the years to get the kick back.

“Isn’t that right, boys?” Harry said, eyeing the four of them, his arms crossed over his chest as they all stood around before their first class of senior year that Monday morning.

Their crisp, navy blue F.M. blazers matched perfectly, as they stood on the steps of John Henry. Their laptop bags over their shoulders, their khakis pressed, their eyes only slightly hooded from their still-lingering weekend hangovers aside, it was almost time to face the day. But Harry didn’t want them to forget the deal he made with Jack and how it would affect all of them now.

Liam passed over his father’s flask to Zayn, with a distinct roll to his eyes and a nervous shake to his hand, as they all murmured their agreements. They knew Harry could be overly dramatic when he wanted to be.

Classes at Foster Montgomery are on the small side. (“The _small_ side?” Kash Vahdat scoffed their freshmen year when he looked around and saw only eleven students in their Spanish class. “Small would be _twenty_ of us. This is downright miniscule, compared to my old school.”) The school pamphlet says smaller class size “leads to more one-on-one attention from the faculty” and that Foster Montgomery “prides itself on the individualized attention each student receives to achieve their goals.” It sounds great on paper, and in theory Harry loves having one of the four boys in almost every class. But it makes it hard to fuck around all day, when there are fewer people to hide behind when one wants to take a nap, or text under the table during a boring lecture.

Not that many F.M. students would take the time to fuck around in class, even if they could.

The reason the Styles Family Business has boomed so well over the last few years is because the students around Gemma and Harry rely on their products first and foremost to get through AP classes. The entire first week back, Harry barely makes his way across campus without various people tugging on his hand, texting him to meet up, or eyeing him in the dining hall. Their eyes say _I need you, please Harry, I have a test on Friday already, I have SAT prep, three papers, early admission is coming up,_ and _you’re my only hope, Harry._

So as Harry lives his life, hanging out with his friends, enjoying his home away from home, with his tie undone and a blazer over his shoulder, he does what Gemma taught him, and sells. He kicks back under his favorite oak tree on the edge of the track, while Louis and Liam work out, and eats weed Gummie Bears with Niall and Zayn after school.

His junior and senior regulars come see him most afternoons, some of his favorite fucking people in the world, some he’s known in the city since he was eleven, some he met just a few years ago. Girls kiss his neck when they feel especially grateful, Mo flirts with him just as much as ever, and Louis only smacks his dick half as often since they don’t share a room anymore. Jack is neat and tidy so his dorm is a pleasant place to be. Zayn doesn’t leave every day like he used to, so their little group feels even closer than before. Harry makes sure to tell him every chance he gets, how glad he is to have him there, “especially as a fellow entrepreneur.” Zayn always calls him an idiot as a response.

As it turned out, Zayn surprised them by pulling out a black case a few days into the school year, well after midnight when they all should’ve been looking over chemistry notes and instead got high out of their minds to make _sure_ they looked over their chemistry notes. Liam kept snapping at them to pay attention, the coke always making him slightly more on edge than the rest of them. But it was hard to concentrate, because apparently Zayn had gone with his oldest cousin into the city in June (“And you didn’t _call_ me?” Harry screeched) to buy a tattoo gun. He’d been practicing for years with Assaf’s, but wanted to have one of his own.

“You never told me! Even… Not even when… Wait, we can market you!” Louis yelled confused and then joyously, eyes coked out and crazed. “Holy shit, you can tattoo for cash. We’ll set up shop right here in our room. Make it legit.”

Harry had to keep himself from laughing as he locked eyes with Zayn. Louis sure did love being the numbers guy, yet again, as he paced the floor and discussed Zayn’s new rate per hour. Overhead, the cost of ink, supply and demand on F.M.’s campus, beating the curve before anyone else moved in on the market. Zayn winked at Harry and let Louis go off on his tangent, as Liam shoved at him to be honest if his notes were clear enough. Niall rambled on about how he didn’t need a tattoo, thank you very much, that he’d stick to Harry’s “services” and snorted the rail of blow from Louis’s Chem II book.

It’s only been a few weeks since school started up again, and they were already in a bit over their heads with classes. They all had their calendars marked for important dates about midterms, college application deadlines, and the weekends their parents were scheduled to visit. Harry had his boys, maybe the prospect of Maureen Voorhees on the horizon if he decides that could work, and a text from Gemma that said he was doing a good job, in sales _and_ doing his own numbers.

All in all, it’s a great first few weeks.

 

***

 

The knock to Harry’s door is a timid one, like the hand on the other side of it is unsure of where exactly it is, like it’s nervous to get in trouble for being outside of the dining hall over lunchtime. Louis shoves at Niall to get in place, to sit over by Liam on Jack’s bed so that Harry and Zayn can sit together on his own. They have a plan, and it means Harry and Zayn need to look especially “Godfather”-esque, side by side.

Louis straightens his tie quickly and then brushes the hair out of his eyes.

“Come in,” he says breezily, kicking back to rest his ass on the heater underneath the window overlooking the sloping lawn that leads towards the tree line.

Slowly, the door opens and in steps two freshmen. A girl who looks a lot like Liam’s oldest sister smooths down her plaid skirt, while the boy with her, some short, skater type clearly from the west coast, coughs into his fist. He reaches with his other hand to grip her hand, a couple already, bless their hearts.

“I swear they’re getting smaller,” Niall says quietly, as Liam sniggers to his right.

Zayn crosses his arms on Harry’s left, which prompts Harry to do the same. Beyond their school uniforms, they want to match. Harry hurries to catch up and schools his face, to try and do that smolder thing Zayn does so well. He feels like it looks like he has food poisoning or something awful, and almost laughs when Zayn elbows him in the ribs to get a grip.

“Hello freshmen,” Louis says with a vicious smile.

“Hey,” the boy says, moving the snapback on his head nervously, looking at Louis because he spoke to him but then at the other boys in the room. He gestures to himself and the girl, “Dean. Steph.”

“What can we do for you?” Louis intones to bring the focus back.

“Uh…” Dean starts.

Niall and Liam start to whisper to each other, probably about nothing, just to create the illusion of talking shit. Harry almost starts to laugh again, so Zayn elbows him harder and gets him straight in the kidney. Harry can’t help but hiss at it.

“Boys?” Louis finally gives up, since the freshmen won’t say anything. He leans back against the heater and throws his hands up.

So Zayn sighs.

“What are you here for?” Zayn says like they’re idiots, flicking a finger between himself and Harry. “Which one of us?”

“Pain or pleasure?” Harry says with a smirk.

The girl’s face reddens.

“I don’t do anything tribal,” Zayn deadpans, his voice hard like he’s bored by the whole exchange. “Nothing in any ‘exotic’ language or script for you lame white people. No offense. If you want art, I want to draw it. No infinity symbols. No shitty song lyrics.”

The boys all laugh at Zayn’s rules. They can’t help it.

“No,” the boy scoffs, annoyed at the exchange thus far, embarrassed to be laughed at. The girl grips his hand tighter.

And honestly, Harry probably should’ve pegged him from the start: this kid from California so used to buying shitty weed from some shitty neighborhood dealer must’ve asked around his new school for the “dopest dealer around” and was lead straight to Harry Styles.

“Me,” Harry nods, understanding. “Alright, what do you need?”

“What do you have?” the kid challenges him, turning towards Harry.

Harry almost scoffs right in his face. He should charge him double, just for being difficult.

“Depends on what you’re looking for here at our beautiful Foster Montgomery Preparatory School,” Harry says with a smile, to give the speech he’s heard Gemma give a thousand times. “The usual for during the week: Adderall and Vyvanse for studying, staying awake, staying alert all night. Coke for quick energy. Weed for the come down, to zone out, to sleep. Oxy if you feel yourself getting sick. For the weekend, if you’re into the classics: MDMA for the rollers. Mushrooms, obviously. And 2-CB for that… psychedelic experience.”

Dean and Steph, probably looking for a quick gram of the Northeast’s best cannabis, stare at Harry like he has three heads. It does sound a bit overwhelming, when put that way, especially to a _freshman_. Zayn elbows Harry again, so Harry elbows him back even harder to leave him alone.

“Gram of Lemon Haze?” Harry sighs.

Dean nods and holds out some cash to make the exchange as quickly as possible. It’s mean, but as the door slams behind them, the boys burst out laughing. The five of them, in their preppy fucking blazers and khakis, are about the least intimidating boys on the planet. And yet they still pulled it off.

“Jesus Christ, you’d think you were Tony Montana the way you were talking,” Liam says, rolling around on the floor clutching his stomach, practically in tears.

“It’s not like I have… I don’t know, black tar heroin or something,” Harry laughs, wiping his eyes. “I _barely_ sell any good shit at this school.”

“And fuckin’ fancy tattoo artist over here,” Niall says to Zayn, who giggles next to Harry as their knees knock together. “Sure have a lot of rules for someone who’s never tattooed anything other than a grapefruit.”

“Fuck off, I’ve tattooed plenty of people.”

“Who?”

“Cousins. People. My sister!”

Zayn shoves at his friends, to show them the pictures on his phone, shit he’s done on various bits of skin from his family members: a feather on Jawaad, Doniya’s bird, a few other pieces for a few other cousins. Zayn’s face does a weird thing as he touches each picture, like he’s trying to squash a memory, or keep something tucked away. Harry notices it and almost asks him about it, quietly, from where he’s sitting next to Zayn on his bed. He even reaches a hand out, to pat at his knee a bit, when Louis reaches over and grabs for Zayn’s phone. He announces they have a break from classes and that no one’s allowed to touch their phones for the next half hour, so the moment is lost.

The boys spend the rest of their lunch hour smoking some Lemon Haze of their own, careful to blow the smoke out the window. If Wallace smells it from down the hall, he pretends not to notice.

 

***

 

Elizabeth Stacy’s birthday falls on the last Friday of September, to usher in the alumni homecoming weekend. It’s just about perfect, seeing as how the seniors will probably spend the month of October slammed with tests as well as college admission essays. So when her boyfriend Storm goes around to each room two days before, popping his head in to give the details about where the party will be held, it’s with a special glint in his eye.

_Let’s do it right, my friends. Fifty-six thousand and counting._

While at his desk, Harry throws his books towards his bag and shuts his laptop, giving up studying for the night. So much for a senior year without giving a shit about grades. At the last second, he shifts the pens on his desk to be in the right order. Then he begins to text the boys about the party and how they’ll need to gather some alcoholic rations for the night, when he hears Jack exhale from his own desk across the room. He of course thinks parties are stupid, and will probably spend his night with the other lame seniors who think movie nights in the den are the only way to blow of steam.

Harry ignores him.

The night of the party, the _fun_ seniors sneak out the same as always. After lights out, give it about an hour for all the RAs to settle in for the night, and head towards the woods in their quietest shoes. It’s past the football field and tennis courts, along the track, towards the stables. There’s a small shed the stable hands use that has a bunch of extra firewood that they can take, if they’re careful. Once they’re far enough away from the school, if done correctly, the varsity hockey team can make a pretty sick fire in a little clearing between some trees near the lake.

This particular tradition has been passed down for years now, so by the time Harry and his friends arrive, the seniors all have exactly what they need to make their night good. Someone brought good speakers, thank God, so the music playing already has Maureen and her friends dancing a bit. Harry smiles at her as he starts handing out joints and tablets, to the people who prepaid. She smiles back.

Harry thinks the voice in his head should be saying something like, _maybe tonight is finally the fucking night,_ but it doesn’t.

He quickly looks away.

Liam has the cups and ice in his backpack, while Niall has the bag full of booze, so Harry makes sure to kiss both of their cheeks first thing as a thank you. Then he kisses Zayn’s cheek because he’s so pretty, and then Louis’s because Louis doesn’t like to be left out of anything, even something as dumb as Harry kissing everyone around him. Then Harry kisses the cheeks of Kash, Dominic, and Amy, in that order, as he makes his way around the fire without spilling his drink _once_.

It’s a great party, which is what Louis says over and over again, in his idiotic stupor. That’s how you know Louis is having a good time. He holds his arms out, says something like _look at us, under the fucking stars, middle of nowhere, free as birds,_ and says how much of a good time he’s having. Niall hits him in the dick once or eight times for good measure. And Zayn makes sure to get as many pictures on his phone as possible, for blackmail later on.

A bit later, Harry can’t see very straight. Someone turns up the song playing and it’s something Harry recognizes, but not something he can remember. That happens whenever he rolls: his brain halves itself into at-odd thoughts. Like when he looks over to Mo and sees the swell of her cleavage as she bends down to whisper something to Jessica, her long black hair sweeping over her shoulders. She winks at him as she does it, sending a small message. Harry sees tits and skin and that mole near her clavicle. And all he thinks about is covering her up with six sweaters. Exactly six sweaters, one after the other, in successive thickness. The thinnest sweater first, building up the thickest sweater, until she’s all covered and warm. So he can’t see any more skin. No more skin, just fabric and wool and roughness. No skin at all.

Harry rubs at his eyes and turns away from the girls and focuses on the fire and the people sitting around it with him for a few hours.

Elizabeth Stacy sits on Storm’s lap all night, which is sort of adorable and sort of nauseating. They’ve been together since they were in seventh grade, when they attended Buckingham Browne & Nichols in Boston. They’re the Ken and Barbie of the senior class, an “Aryan Wet Dream” Zayn said once, with their matching blond hair, blue eyes, and inevitable Harvard Business degrees. They love each other, which is nice, Harry supposes. Storm always makes sure Elizabeth has a drink. He holds her hand if she needs to get up to find a place to pee in the woods, so no one can see. And maybe that’s love, when you’re seventeen: holding someone’s hand so they don’t fall when they need to pee in the woods.

“What are you thinking about?” Liam says with a huff, as he plops down on the ground next to Harry.

Harry tears his eyes away from Storm and Elizabeth, tucked together near the beer. He realizes he’s been sitting in the exact same place, in the same position, for a very long time and hasn’t seen his friends in awhile.

“Peeing in the woods.”

“You gotta pee?” Liam slurs.

_That sounds a bit better, doesn’t it._

“Yeah,” Harry says, as he wrinkles his nose with a smile. So he wobbles up onto his feet to crack his back, his nice boots getting all dirty and makes his way away from the group. Some of them have already gone back to school, which is good, since that’s how they got caught last year. Too many of them went back to the dorms at once, made too much noise, much to the dismay of the Payne and Tomlinson bank accounts.

So when Harry gets far enough away from the fire and voices between the pine trees, he unzips his jeans. Maybe he does have to pee. He almost trips over a branch, but he catches himself just in time and rips his palms open on the bark of a tree. He hisses at the pain.

“Harry?”

It’s Zayn, who comes into view just ahead of him, stumbling slightly. His hair’s so much longer now, not as formal or coiffed as he used to wear it. Harry heard Mr. Malik chastise Zayn for it once, how it fell in his face if he didn’t “do it right,” which was sort of stupid, because even though most of the F.M. students were trying to fuck each other, they weren’t exactly trying to impress anyone. They all knew they had money. There wasn’t anything to prove.

They knew the cost of their tuition. And they all wore the same goddamn uniform.

But Zayn wears his hair wilder now that he’s on his own, with the rest of the boarding school vagabonds without parental supervision. More plaid in his wardrobe too, not so buttoned up. Tighter jeans. More cigarettes behind his ears. He smiles more and, even when he’s shy and a tad awkward, it’s like he throws himself at the world with more ease, which Harry is glad to have noticed. Zayn and Harry both have an affinity for high end and expensive designers, but at least now Zayn can enjoy it without having to present himself like a prized pony.

He talks about getting his nose pierced, about adding more tattoos to his arms, how he has some hidden in places his parents would never see. He drunkenly pressed a finger to Harry’s hip a few days before, with a slight smirk, like that’s where he’d put one on Harry. _It_ _’s how you know a tattoo is good, Haz. If your mother can never look at it up close._

Zayn gets closer, the sounds of the party dimmed and far away, with a look of concern on his face. Harry’s unsure as to why, until he remembers.

“Hi,” Harry says with a frown, looking down at his bloody palms.

“You hurt yourself?”

“I fell.”

“Why’d you fall?”

Harry just shrugs and remembers his zipper is undone. He reaches for it and tries to do it up, but he can’t stand up straight. Zayn notices and holds him steady, his hands on Harry’s elbows, as he finally gets it.

They stand for a few seconds, too far from the party for it to be safe. Sophomore year, two of their own got lost out in these woods and weren’t found for hours the next day. Luckily it was the end of April, otherwise they would’ve frozen to death. Zayn starts to turn Harry towards the way they both came, when instead their ears perk up to the shuffling sounds further into the woods.

“S’that?” Harry whispers.

“I don’t know,” Zayn hisses in return, clearly nervous.

“Let’s go see,” Harry says, too nosy for his own good. He shakes Zayn off and heads deeper in to the forest.

“Harry,” Zayn hisses louder.

Harry’s not sure what he expected to find. Maybe a deer. Or maybe in his fucked out mind, he didn’t consider any possibility. Maybe he was still thinking about people peeing in the woods, and figured it’d be a group of girls awkwardly squatting over the dirt, trying not to get piss on their thongs.

He didn’t expect to find Anthony Yates leaning back against a tree with his jeans around his thighs and a girl on her knees between his legs.

Zayn, not expecting Harry to stop dead in his tracks, walks right into his back. Before he can yelp or ask what’s going on, Harry slaps a hand behind himself, to grab any part of Zayn he can find. It ends up being Zayn’s hip, so he squeezes as hard as he possibly can. Zayn inhales sharply right into Harry’s ear, peering over his shoulder, as he too takes in the scene before them. They move quietly together, like one melded body, to the left so they can hide behind a cluster of small trees. They can still see through the branches, though.

Anthony hasn’t noticed them. He didn’t hear the movement from the path. He’s too busy looking down at the girl, her long brown hair cascading down her back, bobbing up and down on his dick. He has a hand on the back of her neck, licking his lips and inhaling sharply through his nose. Harry can’t tell which girl it is, can’t tell by the hair or her clothes which of his classmates is on her fucking knees, _blowing_ Anthony Yates in the woods, right there in front of him!

Zayn huffs a small breath near Harry’s ear again, like he too can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, moving to Harry’s right so they’re side by side.

“Get it, Anthony,” Harry says in the low voice, shaking his head.

“Can you…”

_Tell who it is?_

“No,” Harry answers the thought. “But she…”

_Looks like she’s good at it?_

“Yeah,” Zayn nods dumbly.

They continue to watch as Anthony makes a sharp inhale of breath, this moan and gasp at the same time. He tries to remove his hand from the girl’s neck, like he’s afraid he’ll press down too hard, so he balls it up in a fist and rests it on her shoulder. But then it must all be too overwhelming because his eyes slide closed and his head tips back to hit the tree behind him.

The girl grips his thighs, her nails digging into him like she’s holding on for dear life. And Anthony must like that because he curses and the fist on her shoulder tightens as he exhales through his nose.

“We should go…” Zayn tries, even though he doesn’t move.

“Yeah,” Harry nods in agreement, at how rude they’re being, watching people who don’t know they’re there.

Anthony bites his bottom lip and opens his eyes so he can look down at her again, at the girl doing this for him. He smiles for a second, like they have some sort of inside joke or maybe like they’re both enjoying it. And then his hand goes to the back of her neck again, tenderly, which is quite nice, Harry thinks. In porn, sometimes the guy slams the girl’s face down on his dick so forcefully, it sounds like she’s about to puke. And honestly, Harry never got the appeal of that so much.

“Yeah, like that,” Anthony whispers.

Harry and Zayn both tense up, at how they can really, truly fucking _hear_ Anthony, at how close they actually are to the scene in front of them. It’s like maybe they forgot, in their drunken minds, that this was real life and not a movie. And if they can hear him, maybe Anthony can hear them, if they move. Suddenly they’re both tense and nervous, Harry sweating like crazy. He feels hot all over, his face red, his skin on fire. He glances to his right and sees that Zayn’s eyes are wide and staring right back at him.

“Babe, I’m gonna come,” Anthony says with a low groan.

And that’s when Harry feels it, when his head snaps forward again despite himself. He wants to watch. He looks back towards Anthony and the girl, to see Anthony finish. He feels the back of Zayn’s wrist against his own, skin touching skin, and they’re both _scorching_.

Anthony comes in her mouth. Fuck, he comes right in her mouth. He was polite and warned her, and she didn’t back away or use her hand. She moves up even, on her knees to get closer to him, and lets him get both hands on her face and neck. He pumps himself into her mouth at least six times in a row, in solid strokes, almost wheezing, as he comes. The muscles in his forearms and shoulders tense, his thighs taught in his jeans, as his entire body feels the release. Harry’s not sure when his mouth got as dry as it did, but he finds himself having to swallow over and over again, to get his salivary glands working.

And all the while, Zayn doesn’t move his arm. He doesn’t move his wrist away from Harry’s, so Harry doesn’t either.

It’s like they both know not to move, that their hiding spot behind those trees has become a little oasis from the rest of the world. They can’t move until Anthony and the girl do. They need to go back to the party first. In no time at all, in what feels like warp speed, Anthony helps the girl up off her knees as they whisper and do up his jeans together.

Zayn and Harry don’t move. They can’t until Anthony and this girl go. They wait, as they walk past without a care in the world, Anthony and the girl (holy shit, Mackenzie Highdecker), giggling and kissing. Harry and Zayn weren’t caught. They stand close together, resolutely not looking at each other, until the coast is clear, and they’re the only two people out in the woods not currently at the party.

Finally, after about a century, Zayn moves his wrist. He steps away.

“We should go,” Zayn says for the second time that night, looking down at the ground.

“Okay.”

They walk back to the party and don’t talk for the rest of the night.

 

***

 

Exactly an hour and thirty-nine minutes later, Harry quietly stumbles his way back to his dorm floor and slams a bathroom stall door behind himself. He plants a hand above the toilet and closes his eyes so he can ignore where he is and what he’s doing.

He can’t go back to his room, he can’t be drunk in his own goddamn home, he has to do this here, alone, where no one can see or _know_ or wonder what he’s thinking about.

Normally when faced with a negative emotion, or one that’s too overwhelming, Harry throws it at the world instead of feeling it. He gets rid of it, erases it, disposes of it. He crumples it up like an old piece of notebook paper and throws it away. On any given day, he’s not sad, angry, nervous. He’s happy. Gemma always said to be good, to force it, if they had to.

So Harry usually makes a scene. _Look at me! I’m okay, see! Look at how okay I am! If I’m telling you I’m fine, then I’m fine! Everyone look at me, I’m the center of attention! And the center of attention can’t be anything other than a burning star!_

The fact that Harry has to be alone right then, after his time in the woods with Zayn, in a quiet space, to level himself, should’ve been a clue. Jack Darcy or not, Harry needed the space.

Before he can process anything else, before the high can wear off completely, Harry undoes his jeans with shaking fingers. He jerks off as fast as he can there in the bathroom stall, with his bottom lip between his teeth, the vision of what he just watched in the woods behind his eyelids, and the scent of pine needles and firewood permanently etched into his nostrils.

 

***

 

Thankfully, the Foster Montgomery dining hall opens slightly later on Saturday mornings, to allow students to “sleep in” one day a week. It doesn’t do much good, seeing as how it’s a little after nine the next day, and when Harry looks around with his chin propped on one hand, over half of the students around him are already buried up to their ears in books. F.M. students rarely have the luxury of sleeping in, resting, slacking off. They party, sure. But they pay a price every other day of the week, to be here.

It’s depressing, is what it is. They work their entire little lives to please their parents, who they barely talk to while in high school, to end up in expensive Ivy League universities, to work for rich companies, so they can send their own kids to places like this. It’s a vicious cycle. Harry sighs and pushes his untouched bowl of Cheerios across the table, suddenly grossed out at the thought of ingesting dairy while hung over.

He also feels his phone buzz in his pocket, which means he either has an incoming text from Gemma about her arrival later that night, the copy-and-pasted weekly text from his parents to say hello, or the one featuring his daily horoscope. All three sound quite depressing, so he ignores it.

Right when Harry decides to give up and head to his room after having spent the night on Niall and Liam’s floor after the party, Niall himself plops down in the chair opposite Harry.

“Morning, fuck face,” Niall intones, doing that thing he does to open a straw, by banging it into the wood of the table. He then blows into it, shooting the paper straight at Harry’s face, before depositing it into his glass of orange juice. “I woke up and both you and Liam were gone. How did you sleep?”

“I used your mother’s panties as a pillow, thank you.”

Niall blinks.

“I slept fine,” Harry deadpans.

“Why didn’t you stay with Lou and Zayn?”

“Because I wanted to stay with you,” Harry says with a sly grin. “I like to sleep on your floor sometimes too, you know. I enjoy your company.”

“Yeah, okay,” Niall says with a snort. He also pushes the bowl of cereal Harry didn’t want back towards Harry’s weak and feeble hands, with a motherly nod, to eat his breakfast. Harry frowns at him. Whiskey Stomach and Cheerios do not mix.

“You smell like shit,” says a hoarse voice over Harry’s messy head of hair.

Two hands follow, gripping his shoulders to knead at them at bit, the pressure heavenly to Harry’s fucked up muscles. Harry even groans and leans back into it, chasing after the massage.

But the hands don’t stay, and neither does the boy attached to them. It's Zayn, who instead sits in the chair to Harry’s right, his hair a mess, his t-shirt on backwards. He even wore his fucking slippers to the dining hall, something Harry would _never_ do for how fucked he would look, and goddamn it, Zayn makes it look nice and on purpose, his entire wardrobe top of the line, expensive, high end. Zayn’s a walking Vogue editorial.

“I swear to God,” Zayn says to Niall, his voice raspy and low, shoving any and all food away from him, “that’s the last time I do shots of Jager with Cody Ornish.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Niall rolls his eyes, pointing at Zayn with his fork, to teach a lesson. “Haven’t I said? This is your first year with us fucked up little shithead boarders, Zayn. We’re the Weekend Kids who never had supervision during these ‘important formative years.’ We live on the edge. You need to learn the ropes to keep up.”

Harry snorts, even though Zayn hasn’t really spoken to him yet.

“No really, it’s like, Rule Number Seventeen,” Niall says. “Never do shots of anything with Cody Ornish, or any of the lacrosse team. Young Padawan, you have much to learn.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn mumbles with a smile.

Harry smiles too, but he tries to keep out of the way, with his mouth shut. He ends up staring at the table for most of the conversation, his brain suddenly remembering what he saw in the woods the night before. What _they_ saw, Harry and Zayn. Anthony and Mackenzie together, tucked away in a heated, private moment. With their wrists touching. And how they walked away afterward, without another word, until now when Zayn said he smelled like shit and then touched his shoulders. Harry cracks his neck at the lingering pressure in his muscles.

“Right, Haz?”

Harry’s head snaps up, minutes later, suddenly aware of the attention back on him.

“What?”

“I said you didn’t drink much, but were fucked up,” Niall says with a nod. “You were rolling pretty hard.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees with Niall, looking right at him. He doesn’t really want to look at Zayn.

“Do you remember much?” Zayn asks, because the universe hates Harry Styles, and forces him to face Life’s Questions at all opportunities.

Harry takes a second to rearrange himself, to shift his body in his chair. More people have filtered into the dining hall, most of them alert like Niall, a few hung over but held together like Zayn, and only a handful in last night’s clothes like Harry. Both Louis and Liam are unaccounted for, Louis definitely too dead to the world to wake up for hours, Liam missing in action. A sophomore over near the vending machines catches Harry’s eye, her hair a mess, her eyes wild with worry, her arms overwhelmed with a laptop and books. She needs something, anything, to get through the week. Harry knows: she’ll find him soon, slipping him a wad of cash. She’ll need a fix.

But Niall hasn’t forgotten him. He nudges Harry’s hand with the edge of his breakfast tray, to pay attention. He probably thinks Harry is still out of it, coming down from the molly, the after effects of the drug still wearing off. Sometimes if they don’t smoke weed after doing ecstasy, to take the edge off, the come down can last days. Niall, their mother hen, could fucking _peck_ at them and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“I mean…” Harry starts to speak, shrugging a shoulder.

But Zayn cuts him off.

“I don’t remember much of anything,” he says, stretching a bit, his shirt getting caught on the back of his chair, suddenly more energized.

Harry snaps his head over, to look straight at him. But Zayn won’t look at anything other than Niall.

“I just remember getting to the campfire and having a few drinks. Lit a J with Louis. Hung out. Then had those last few shots with Cody, and then something about us talking shit about Stefan not showing up because he was worried about his summer girlfriend being pregnant? I don’t know.”

Harry blinks.

“Holy shit, that’s right. Amy and Jess said something about that,” Niall says, getting excited over a bit of gossip.

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, eyes finally bouncing from Niall to Harry, like everything is fine, everything is cool, the world is as normal as any other day. “But that’s… that’s it, that’s all I remember of last night. Not even sure how I got back to my room.”

Harry stops staring at Zayn and looks down at the table.

“I mean, it was a good party, right? I think I had fun? Was that a normal party for you fuckers, and what I can expect from now on?”

“Sure,” Niall says. “I mean, when _we_ throw them, they’re always better. You’ll remember _ours_. But it was good.”

Harry doesn’t say much after that, and focuses on his cuticles. He sits with Niall as he finishes his breakfast and sides with Zayn when he says he’s too hung over to eat. The three of them walk back to their building together, Harry suddenly dying to get out of his jeans and patterned Gucci shirt. He squirms under the weight of the fabric, his skin hot, as they wave to Wallace when they see him on the bike path. Students jog around them, girls sprawl on the grass to study and sun bathe in shorts before the fall weather sets in, and Harry makes sure his hands stay in his pockets as Zayn tells them about the arm piece he designed for some junior transfer.

Harry keeps his hands in his pockets, in fists.

He can’t chance having his wrist touch Zayn’s, not again.

 

***

 

“This is an embarrassment of riches,” Liam sighs that night, as he takes a swig of the flask he always keeps in his breast pocket.

They’re in their nicest suits in the large, obscenely decorated banquet room just off of Hagerman Hall, for the alumni reception before the homecoming football game that night. It’s a parade of wealthy donors, their wealthy children who are required to attend, and the athletes in their jerseys who must show off the uniforms these people paid for.

As always, the boys shield each other as they drink and pass Liam’s dad’s flask around amongst themselves. Louis maneuvers to the right, as Harry shifts to the left, so that when two passing faculty members greet them with fake smiles and haughty laughter, Zayn can graciously compliment the candles over near the Class of 1964 banner (while pointing at it to divert their attention).

Liam slips the flask back into his pocket before anyone can see, right as Mrs. Harrington goes flying past them to go talk the ear off of Senator Braxton.

“If they don’t throw a party to suck each other’s dicks about how much money they make, and spend, for their children,” Louis shrugs, “then what is the point?”

As if on cue, Liam’s stepmother and Louis’s father both take the opportunity to gesture over from their table for their sons to straighten their ties. All five boys, even though they have flutes of sparkling cider in their hands, do their best to make sure their ties lay flat.

“Good boys,” Zayn mumbles.

“Thank god my parents aren’t here,” Harry intones, bored, grateful that the Styles rarely have time for their children, let alone for school functions. They say their monetary donations are enough. He does glance around, anxious for Gemma to finally arrive. Many of last year’s seniors come through for their first post-F.M. homecoming, to cause a little havoc.

“Ditto,” Niall and Zayn say together.

Smiling, they touch their noses with their pointer fingers, as a way to jinx each other.

Another hour and they’re all a tad tipsy, as the F.M. students mill around each other and try their best not to be bored to tears. The girls in their cocktail dresses and the boys in their crisp suits avoid the parents like the plague, while also showing just enough face to make sure they’re seen. Various alumni and faculty pull at the AP students who show the most promise in their classes, the ones who will attend Harvard and Yale, and make the right connections. Louis sidesteps his father every so often, not quite ready to discuss the recommendation letters they all know he keeps texting Louis about. It makes Harry a little nauseous, to think about the fact that they’ll be leaving at the end of the year, to head off to so many different places. So talking about the inevitable college applications in the coming weeks makes him even more upset.

Zayn must notice Harry’s discomfort, because all night Zayn has had a strange look on his face whenever they lock eyes. Harry thinks Zayn must know him pretty well now, after being in such close quarters. It’s like he must sense it, what Harry needs: he makes sure to grip Liam’s arm every so often, to reach into his jacket pocket so that he and Harry can pass the flask back and forth behind the other boys.

It’s finally the end of the reception, before the students are allowed to go change into more comfortable clothes for the football game, and they’re tucked in a corner. Liam, Louis, and Niall stand in front of Zayn and Harry, loudly talking and pointing over at nothing, practically pissing themselves at being “the distraction” so the two of them can finish off the whiskey.

“They’re good boys, aren’t they,” Harry says in a whisper, his mouth close to Zayn’s as he peels the flask away from his bottom lip.

“S’nice of them,” Zayn agrees, his nose wrinkling as he laughs.

He takes the metal container from Harry’s slender fingers and tilts it back over his mouth, the last few drops falling down onto his chin.

Harry watches them race down, down, down, like he used to watch rain drops race down the glass of a car window during long drives to see distant relatives. He always got the seat in the back of the town car, next to Gemma, shipped off where their parents didn’t have to deal with them. The liquid trickles over the stubble of Zayn’s chin, down the column of his throat, over his Adam’s apple, all the way to the collar of his white dress shirt.

Suddenly Harry has a case of severe cottonmouth, as he realizes he’s been staring at Zayn’s neck for far too long. The two of them watched a guy get a blowjob the night before, mere feet away, and they touched as it happened. Briefly, only their wrists, but it was something. And Zayn said he forgot it. Harry can’t forget, he keeps picturing it, wondering about it, if Zayn liked it. He wants to ask Zayn so many questions.

He’s only jolted out of his drunken stupor, when a hand tugs at the back of his hair playfully.

“Alright there, sunshine,” a voice singsongs. “You’re a mess already, and it’s barely seven.”

Harry almost falls over, his eyes ripped away from Zayn’s throat before he can process if Zayn knew he was staring, to turn and see Gemma standing there with her hands on her hips. Gemma, flash in a pan, her wide eyes and slender Styles nose just a little pink from sunburn, there in the flesh. Her hair’s longer, blonder, in a vintage sundress that can’t have cost more than fifty bucks and Doc Martens. A New Yorker at heart, and now as an NYU student, she truly looked the part.

Harry doesn't even have to say anything, as he scrambles to reach for her. The boys know to give them a moment, the Styles siblings who were practically Irish Twins, needed to hug it out. Harry, the idiot, actually spins her a bit.

And because his friends know him well, when he nearly stumbles from the whiskey, they don't let Gemma fall.

 

***

 

Harry learned from Gemma how not to process the things that can be burdensome. The ties that bind. _My thoughts create my world, Harry. I read that in a book once._ They had a nice life growing up, nothing they can truly complain about. Good schools, caretakers who fed them, access to music lessons and dance classes and antidepressants. When Harry turned sixteen, he was given a car. And when he wrecked that car, he was given the Jag. When Gemma got caught shoplifting handbags from Barneys, Des Styles made a phone call.

But they weren’t expected to excel beyond their grades or their wardrobes. The Styles household didn’t come with much positive reinforcement, family dinners, or scenic trips to the Cape. They went to school and then events. They attended brunches, art gallery openings, fashion shows that Gemma sometimes walked in. Harry learned to ride a bike in Central Park when he asked his third nanny’s brother Cedric to teach him. Gemma lost her virginity to Cedric’s friend Gavin when she was thirteen.

No sex talks, no reassurances about being a loving family deep down, no consequences for selling drugs amongst the upper echelon of their parents’ beloved alma mater boarding school.

So Gemma and Harry took care of each other. They were their own family.

As they watch the ridiculous Foster Montgomery homecoming football game that night from the stands in their best royal blue and white hats and scarves, Harry and his friends, with Gem and her returning friends, it’s almost perfect. Harry feels light as a feather, his long hair blowing in his face and his cheeks red from the crisp fall air. This is what he needed, after coming into this year without Gemma, without Louis only a bed away, on his own. Scared. Upset. Harry doesn’t often admit to himself when he’s upset (he doesn’t admit any of his tough emotions), but he has a feeling it’s written all over his face most days, when he’s not hiding it with a flashing smile.

This is all he needed, tonight. To be with just these people, high on _life_.

He thinks the boys must know, or maybe the universe knows, because Zayn keeps messing up his hair and pinching his cheeks. Niall slaps his ass, when one of the opposing team’s cheerleaders winks at him from the field. Even Louis and Liam, when they start bickering over something stupid, make sure to hug Harry between their chests, like he’s “holding them back” from beating the shit out of each other, the twats.

Gemma must like it, being back in this place she used to run practically with her eyes closed, Wallace at her beck and call, with her own friends. She keeps twirling her dress and cheering with the crowd, even though she hates sports.

Towards the end of the game, their team scores another touchdown and the band plays a song from across the field to celebrate. Louis almost falls on his ass as Gemma’s old roommate Alice shoves her chest in his face, an old inside joke between them. He laughs so hard he has tears in his eyes.

And maybe that’s what does it, that one small joke.

It changes the tide of the night entirely.

And Harry hates change.

“You all seriously need to get laid,” Alice laughs, wiping at her face. “Lou’s about to come in his pants, just from a pair of tits.”

“I second that,” Liam says solemnly, crossing himself.

Gemma rolls her eyes, hating to hear the conversation right next to her brother. She pushes Alice towards the girls to go to the restroom, reaching into her purse. Harry sniffs a bit, his nose running as he stills. The boys have latched onto the idea. Zayn, on the other side of Liam, peers around the group and listens in, his eyes round.

Niall and Louis begin to discuss the logistics of the after party in the other senior dorm, once all of the older alums and teachers have left for the night. Once it’s quieted down on campus from the weekend’s activities, and the seniors and younger alums can finally party it up for old time’s sake, there are decisions to be made.

Who to go for, which girls are single, who gets what room, are there enough condoms to go around?

Harry frowns.

“I have a few in my desk drawer,” Niall says, fist bumping both Louis and Liam. “We’re covered.”

“We did toast to pussy this year,” Liam says with a laugh, wiping at his nose from the blow he had earlier in the night. “And look at us, it’s almost October and we’re all batting zero.”

Harry looks at Zayn. Zayn looks at Harry. The marching band starts playing another rousing song with horns blaring, which means points must’ve been scored for something, as the crowd cheers in the stands. The game’s almost over. Someone starts yelling over the loud speaker, like they can’t believe it.

_Look at us, we’re winning!_

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees with the boys, nodding, looking away from Harry. “I think I’ll talk to Amy tonight. We did that English discussion on Tuesday, and it was, like… like, she’s cool.”

“ _Yes_ , Zayn,” Niall fist bumps him. “Get in.”

An arm slings around Harry’s shoulders, before securing itself around his neck in a playful, yet firm manner. As is Louis’s way.

“Harold, think you’ll finally bag Mo Voorhees before your dick falls off? She’s been practically begging for it since freshmen year,” Louis says, pinching Harry’s cheek.

_My thoughts create my world._

Harry blinks. His eye twitches.

 _Maureen on her back. You wanted that. You_ want _that. Her looking up at you with wide, set eyes. The both of you in her bed because Jack would never let you in with a girl on your arm. Her long hair splayed on the pillow, the feel of her writhing around from just your fingers. Fucking into her until she’s panting, her face in your neck, her red fingernails digging into your hips. Girls girls girls._

_My thoughts create my world._

“Yeah,” Harry finally says, resolutely not looking at Zayn Malik or remembering the strong, muscular thighs of a boy in the woods, because those are things he has to concentrate on not doing sometimes. “Yeah, I’ll fuck her tonight, I think.”

The five boys, in their excitement, missed another touchdown and a fumble from the other team. So when they finally turn back towards the field, Louis makes them cheer obnoxiously loud to show their support and “school spirit.”

Gemma and the girls she graduated with in May once again rejoin the little group to watch the final seconds of the game, their eyes a little more glazed than before. She can read Harry like a palm reader, a medium, some fortuneteller with stars in her eyes. It’s like she can search the planes of his face like his whole life is written there for the world to see.

But whatever she sees, she keeps it to herself.

She just throws herself against Harry’s side, to make him put an arm around her.

“You okay?” she says quietly, looking up at him.

He nods, lying.

And she knows, but she doesn’t say so. Gemma does what she does best and changes the subject, to something they can handle, something tangible and real and _right now, this second, to make us happy._ Like when they were little and Harry was crying over something small, something stupid, but he couldn’t stop. Once he started, he could never stop. His mother loathed the sound.

Gemma would grab his hand, twirl him in a circle in his bedroom decorated like a circus tent, when he was still shorter than her. _Let’s be happy right now, hmmm? At this moment in time, sunshine. Let’s pretend we’re at the top of the Statue of Liberty, you and me, happy as can be._

_My thoughts create my world._

“I got some new shit,” she says mischievously, patting at her purse. “You’ll like it. F.M. will like it too, I think.”

Somewhere to their left, Zayn’s laughter pierces the air like a sharp knife.

_Right now, this second, to make us happy._

“Yeah?” Harry asks.

“Yeah. We’ll price it real good, you and me.”

Harry nods.

“You wanna get fucked up?” Gem whispers with a wink.

Harry sees her eyes slide a bit out of focus, like they’re trying not to cross.

And he realizes that being high on life, and life only, has never worked for him before. He realizes he needs something else after all, so he nods again.

“Yeah.”

 

***

 

Because he’s a cliché in almost every sense of the word, when Harry gets fucked up and wants to feel maudlin, he listens to classic 80s music. He likes the feel of the notes, the way the music had feeling behind it, when bands actually went into studios together and recorded around one mic. Pop stars had substance, flare, the _balls_ to be different. It was a time that had soul, when the music had actual instruments and guitar strings whining on the tracks, before producers cleaned everything up into HD polished bullshit. They were lucky, those bastards. They had Bowie and REO Speedwagon and fucking _Warrant_.

And since John Hughes has made an entire generation of kids romanticize the people they _swear_ their parents never were, Harry latched to it. He wishes he could listen now. He wishes a lot of things.

He used to tell the boys it was the way to his heart. 80s music. But on a tape.

“People used to make mix tapes for their beaus, back in the day. Not mix _CDs_ ,” Harry would slur to the boys when they made fun of him, as he turned up “Africa” by Toto or “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane in his old dorm with Louis. “ _Tapes_ , on little recorders, that you had to start and stop at specific points, just right, to make sure the music flowed. It took work, and man-hours, and so much time and energy. Not some fucking asshole, with a fucking MacBook and shitty files from the Internet. I want a mix tape. It’s a lost art, and I think it’s a fucking shame.”

That’s what Harry thinks about as he leans his head back against the headrest in his car. His beautiful, custom leathered 1956 Jaguar that his dad didn’t need in his collection anymore and handed over to Harry like it was nothing. It doesn’t have a tape deck, or a CD player, or a fancy hookup for an iPhone. As he sits in the parking lot of his dorm, it’s completely silent. No 80s music, no John Hughes score. Just Harry, shitfaced drunk, high on some pill Gemma swore would change his worldview, and a bottle of bourbon in his hand.

“I’m a fucking cliché,” Harry mumbles to himself, before taking another drink.

He had seen Gemma and her friends off awhile before, to their cab just outside the front gate to the school because they’re allowed to leave whenever they want. Gemma, free as a bird. She hugged Harry underneath the wrought iron school motto, strenuis ardua cedunt. _The heights yield to endeavor._ She didn’t just tell him to be good and make money, or to call her if he needed another supply before Christmas.

She handed him the good bourbon, the stuff from their mother’s special shelf, and also told him to take the gate’s advice.

_Be smart, sunshine. Use that brain of yours. Hard work always pays off in the end, if it’s for the right reason._

He smiled like he understood and waved to her, before making his way to his car, to sit in the driver’s seat and have a nice, long think. The party in the dorms didn’t seem to be slowing down any time soon. Niall had enough condoms on hand after all. Harry pokes a finger to the front pocket of his jeans and feels one there, the wrapper wrinkling under the pressure. The boys had girls to talk to. Zayn was with Amy DiSante. Amy’s aunt worked at Dartmouth in the biological sciences department, which she only ever mentioned when someone asked where she planned to attend school, because she never bragged about anything. Smart. Pretty. She had perfect teeth and a small waist. She was short, just how Zayn usually liked girls, so he could jokingly rest his arm on her head like he was napping there.

Harry watched them for a while in Stefan’s room, as they sat on a bed and shared a bottle of beer between them. They kept passing it back and forth, as Zayn made her laugh, like how Harry and Zayn did with Liam’s flask during the alumni reception. But they didn’t have to hide it. The boys didn’t have to stand in front of them to point at random shit hanging on the walls (band posters, an F.M. flag, pictures from Barcelona), to shield Zayn and Amy from wandering eyes.

They shared a beer out in the open, their lips touching the same cool glass, over and over. Zayn could sit with someone and not have to worry about people staring. None of the boys had to worry about that. Zayn liked girls. They all liked girls.

And Harry knew he couldn’t watch anymore, that whatever Gemma gave him didn’t settle right, not tonight, not for him, and he had to end it. He had to do something.

_Look at me!_

Harry ended up grabbing Kash Vahdat by the lapels of his jacket. He said, “Kash, show us what Zayn did for you! We all want to see!” as loudly as he could, so everyone in the room would stop looking at other people, and instead look at Harry. They all looked at Harry and Kash, as Harry shoved Kash’s shirt up to reveal the tattoo Zayn did on his ribcage.

That caught attention. Some of the girls had to touch it, their clumsy fingers making Kash giggle and blush. Kash was beautiful, honestly. He had a good face. A nice face. Pretty skin and long eye lashes and black hair that Harry wanted to touch a little bit. He even had a rather nice ribcage, from what Harry could see.

People from the hallway, from other open doorways and other parts of the dorm party, even came in to look. Not everyone knew what Zayn’s work looked like. And Harry wanted everyone to see how talented Zayn was, how his tattoos were the best, how Liam said he wanted his entire arm covered in Zayn’s ink. Harry wanted it too, something on his hipbone first. He just needed a good idea.

Zayn stood up eventually, when people started asking about the design of the roaring lion, how he made the curves of the bottom. He said he needed to work on his layers and shading, which Harry almost growled at. _Your layers and shading are great._ Zayn pointed out how he created a bit of a shadow on one of the letters beneath the animal’s mane, and Amy giggled at him from where she watched over his shoulder, as Zayn gently poked and prodded Kash’s exposed torso in the low light of the room, hazy with smoke.

Zayn blushed a bit, when she made that sound and touched his arm and nuzzled his cheek. And that’s when Harry left, his hand dropping Kash’s shirt where he still held it up for their friends to see. Without another word, or a backwards glace, he fell into the hall and had to find Gemma. He didn’t want to be around Zayn Malik or Amy DiSante or Kash’s pretty skin that sort of made Harry want to cry. He wanted to be around his sister and her friends, her really nice friends, and Louis. But Louis was behind a closed door, with a really nice girl named Danielle, and a condom from Niall’s drawer.

Harry presses at the condom in his pocket yet again there alone in his Jag, before wrestling it out of his tight black jeans. Before he knows it, he’s rolling down the window and flinging it out into the night.

If only he had a song to listen to.

Just then, the passenger door to his right creaks open. Harry whips around to see the stranger coming to join him, when none other than Zayn Malik himself drops into the seat with a huff.

“What the fuck,” Harry says, gesturing with the bourbon towards the boy next to him in his cramped car.

“Was walking by,” Zayn huffs again, wrenching the door closed, the top canvas shaking from the movement, “and saw your lanky ass sitting out here alone, about to drive off into a ditch and get yourself killed. Where were you going?”

“M’not driving anywhere,” Harry scoffs, incensed.

“Is that so?”

“Do you hear an engine?”

“You’ve done dumber things,” Zayn intones with an intense glare. “How was I supposed to know you weren’t planning on driving?”

Harry snorts at that and rolls his eyes. And they say _Harry’s_ the dramatic one. Yeah so he’s drunk inside his car; he didn’t start the engine, did he? There’s nowhere to _go_ , no one to go _see_. And what could possibly be gained from fucking up his Jag?

“You never give me any credit,” Harry shrugs, taking another drink of bourbon. “I should be angry with you for even asking.”

“What you _should_ _be_ ,” Zayn mumbles, reaching for the bottle, “is in bed.”

But he too takes a swig of the brown liquid, leaning back against the seat. The two of them look out towards the sprawling campus of their school, all bought and paid for by people with their same last names, but who barely know them. The academic buildings they’re supposed to apply themselves in, the sports fields neither of them excel on, the cramped rooms they sleep in. And where they apparently fuck girls.

“Where’s Amy?” Harry says quietly, taking the bottle back.

He’s long past the stage where the bite of liquor could get to him tonight, but that one does. After he asks that question, suddenly it hurts to take a drink. Harry feels the bile in his throat, that feeling of intense saliva kicking back at him, like he’s about to be sick. So he has to tell himself to relax, to breathe, to swallow it.

“She went back to her room,” Zayn says just as quietly, grabbing the bottle once again, like they’re fighting for it.

When he takes a drink, it goes down easy. Harry watches his throat again, without any droplets having a race, as he downs it as easy as lemonade. Water. Root beer, which Harry knows is one of his favorites.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Not tonight then, huh,” Harry says. He has to cross his fingers a bit, suddenly nervous to hear the answer. _Did you use your condom, did you need it, are you like me Zayn, are you good at opening them with your teeth?_

“No, not tonight,” Zayn agrees with a nod.

Harry nods, too.

Zayn hands Harry the bottle of bourbon. They’re almost to the bottom of it now, the last few shots left in the clear bottle. Harry swishes it a bit and suddenly doesn’t feel so sick. He swallowed it. Whatever it was, whatever threatened to come up, he swallowed.

“How’d the other boys do?” Harry asks, curious.

“Louis and that junior girl. Don’t know her name,” Zayn says with a smirk. “The dog. Niall and Ruth, most likely just making out. They were both pretty fucked, last I checked. But then I saw Liam with Julie Hathaway. He had his hand on her ass.”

“Cheers,” Harry giggles.

“It’s good for him, I think,” Zayn says, slightly more serious. “He’s… stressed.”

“Yeah?” Harry eyes him, a tad caught off guard by that.

“I mean, just to have a night with a girl, even if they’re just talking or whatever,” Zayn says, grabbing the bottle a little more harshly than he had before. “Like… it’s important to have someone to talk to sometimes. Someone you can touch. And he’s having a rough go of it so far, so…”

Harry scratches at the denim of his jeans, suddenly wishing they weren’t in his cramped car, or wearing their boots, if he needs to pass out. Harry can’t stretch his legs out and it’s warmer with two people breathing inside it. The windows could start to fog up soon.

But he can’t focus on much beyond the fact that Liam’s off talking and touching a girl. Which Zayn says is important, to touch. _They’re_ talking, but they’re not touching. Not like they do when they joke around sometimes, like all the boys do. And definitely not like in the woods, when they watched another boy jizz right in front of them. When their wrists connected and Harry felt his insides light on fire.

“I didn’t…” Harry says, to quiet his brain, still so out of it. “I guess I didn’t notice. Like with Liam, I mean.”

“He’s said it. In his own Liam-like way. With his parents and with college applications soon, it’s a lot to live up to. He didn’t have a great SAT score, and with everything coming so fast… it’s been hard for him.”

“I didn’t…” Harry mumbles, realizing he hasn’t checked in with Liam, or asked about him lately. He hasn’t really asked any of his friends how they’re feeling about life. And how it’s changing. How they’re coping.

“Yeah well,” Zayn sighs, tipping the bottle back to get the last few drops of bourbon. “Maybe you should pay more attention.”

He looks over at Harry after he says it, to hand him the empty bottle. Harry blinks at him and takes it, his fingers fumbling slightly. The pill has all but worn off by now, but his stomach is full of liquor. So later, when he thinks back on it, he can’t blame himself for thinking about John Hughes and what kind of song would be playing.

Harry wishes he could hear a song inside his head as he looks at Zayn and bites his lip a bit.

_Did you really forget what happened in the woods? Were you looking at Anthony or Mackenzie? I wanted to look at Mackenzie, I swear. But all I can think about now is looking at you._

Zayn doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes, though. He doesn’t say anything about getting out of the car anytime soon either, or about going to bed, even though it’s late. He just leans further back into the leather seat and folds his long fingers over his stomach and looks out towards the tree line where the sun will eventually rise.

Harry watches him for a beat longer, as he gets comfortable, and then decides to do the same.

 

***

 

It becomes their place.

Over the next two weeks, every night after everyone settles in to study after dinner hours, Harry finds himself climbing into his Jag to sit in the front seat and look out at everything and nothing. Maybe Harry tells himself it’s to get away from Jack’s nervous SAT energy. Or maybe he just wants to be alone, now that he’s the most lonely he’s been since coming to this school three years before.

But inexplicably, without ever asking if he can join, Zayn shows up a few minutes later, wrenching open the passenger door with a beanie over his head and cigarette smoke trailing in his wake.

Sometimes they talk, and sometimes they don’t. Politics, the world, school, their friends. But mostly it’s quiet. Harry brings a book some nights, if the moon is out and he can see the words. Other nights he watches Zayn draw in his sketchpad, since he’s been getting more and more commissions for tattoos.

A few times, people come up to Harry’s window asking if they can score for the week. But it looks even sketchier than it already does, when kids come up to Harry Styles unprompted with their hands out full of cash, so Harry shoos them away before he gets caught and the magic is lost. He doesn’t want the magic to be lost, for their place to go away or get tarnished because a faculty member sees them sneaking into his car night after night.

Harry also spends the next two weeks paying more attention. He asks Liam if he’s doing alright, if he needs help studying. Harry has the idea for the five of them to spend some of their lunch periods in the library, just because, which Louis absolutely abhors. But it gives them a chance to sit in silence and focus, for Niall to put on headphones and type out his essays, for Liam to press his fingers to his forehead to read over Chem II notes, for Louis to actually try. Zayn winks at Harry sometimes, whenever Harry says it’s a nice day to study in the lounge.

And on the nights the boys want to get fucked up, they do. Niall doesn’t just make out with Ruth anymore, which forces Liam onto Harry’s floor some nights. Jack tolerates it. Zayn and Amy still chat during small dorm get-togethers, when the lacrosse boys beg Harry to bring his best shit to their floor. Something snaps in Harry whenever he has to watch, but no matter how many times Louis tells him to go knock on Mo’s door, the more Harry can’t.

He does jerk off in the bathroom more than he ever has before.

Gemma knows something is off, whenever they talk. She asks and asks, but Harry doesn’t have an answer. Well he does, but not an answer he wants to say out loud. If he says it, if he puts a capital letter onto the word to describe himself, there’s no going back. And even though it’s fine, it’s okay, it’s not something to be ashamed of, it’s new. And Harry doesn’t like new. Harry likes old, classic, vintage, The Same. He likes the old Harry, the Harry he was last year when he roomed with Louis and everything was normal, when he fucked around with three different girls because he could. Back before they had to think about leaving for college, and boys with strong thighs coming in the woods, and other boys with inked skin and wide tongues.

_My thoughts create my world._

Whenever Harry sells a gram of coke to a junior freaking out over SATs or to a sophomore gearing up for Mr. Domingo’s annual Death Week of quizzes every day, Harry also “sells” a gram to himself.

It’s easier that way.

 

***

 

Desmond Richard Mercland Styles rarely contacts his children unprompted. That’s not to say that he’s incapable of loving them, or disinterested in their well-being as a whole, but Harry very rarely gets a phone call or text from his father that doesn’t start out with, “Your mother said I should ring you.”

Every weekend, Harry gets a text from both of his parents (if they happen to be staying in New York the same weekend), or from each of their phones, if they’re both away on business. It’s usually the same type message to say hello, ask how his studies are coming along, if he’s eating well, and if he’s gotten into any trouble. Every so often Des will ask about the Jag, if it’s running smoothly, or if it needs a tune-up under the hood. But those father/son types of messages are few and far between.

Once, the summer before, Harry removed what he believed to be a spark plug from the Jag’s engine, when his father was in the city for some gala they needed to attend as a family, to test a theory. If the Jag really was fucked up and needed a repair, would Des take it in with him? Would they do it together, find some specialty shop that smelled of oil and gasoline, with gruff men who would tell Harry to hold their tools while they worked?

Or would it be carted away by strangers, when Harry was dead asleep, before he ever even knew it was gone? Poked and prodded, like the prized possession it was, in a fancy dealership that Des probably owned, somewhere Harry never even knew existed.

As it were, all Des had to do was make a phone call.

When Harry descended the staircase the next night for the gala, his Tom Ford suit pressed and elegant on his shoulders with Gemma shuffling behind him with a crazed look in her eye from the bumps they shared beforehand, Des mentioned it. He’d had almost the entire engine refurbished, without a second thought for Harry or the bonding experience they could’ve had.

“The Jag is good as new. Not to worry.”

And that was that.

Harry’s phone buzzes in his pocket as he waits in line in the dining hall on a Sunday morning, and he knows it’s his parents. Both of them, one of them, whichever. He has two bottles of root beer, one for himself and one for Zayn, because he wanted to do something nice. To surprise Zayn, while he worked for a few hours that day on a tattoo for a girl he’d befriended. Some sophomore who wanted “something special.” Zayn had said he needed to concentrate for this one, extra hard. “To make it good for her.”

And Harry thinks that’s nice, for Zayn to want that for someone. If the artwork he comes up with is going to be permanent, it’s nice that Zayn takes it so seriously. It’s the least Harry can do, to bring him something to drink.

As he gets closer to the front of the line to swipe his dining card, he finally reaches for his phone as it buzzes again.

Desmond Richard Mercland Styles.

_Hello Harry, hope you’re well. Mom said to text you, and that you’ve been studying hard. Applications go out soon, don’t they? Do let us know if you need money for the fees, although we know Columbia will be lucky to have you next year. I expect we’ll be down to see you in November, for Parents Weekend. How’s the Jag running? –DRMS_

Harry’s jaw clenches against his will, like it does every time he sees his father’s stupid text signature. He tried to tell him once, that a signature is deletable, that when it’s not business and he’s texting his _kids_ , “by all means hit the backspace.” But it fell on deaf ears, clearly.

Gemma likes to end her texts to Harry with her own initials sometimes, to make him smile.

Harry doesn’t even respond. He just puts his phone back into his pocket and steps to the woman at the card reader, pressing at his eyelid where it's started to twitch. Even if he did say something back, to engage in any sort of conversation, his father has already forgotten about it. If he’s in New York for work, he’s already disengaged and is probably once again buried in his old school Blackberry answering emails. No time for his son.

Back in Zayn and Louis’s room, Harry slips in as quietly as he can. The only sounds reverbing against the wood paneled walls are that of a low-simmering album Harry can’t place, and the sharp buzz of the tattoo needle.

Harry settles himself at Louis’s desk and watches with wide eyes.

The girl, Lennox, reminds Harry of Gemma a bit, when she was going through her "phase" as their parents called it. Long dyed black hair, black nail polish, dark eye makeup. She’s on her side, on Zayn’s bed, with her Slasher t-shirt up under her armpit and a hand covering her breast. Zayn hunches over her in his low-backed desk chair, and works on her ribcage, like where Kash had his tattoo done. He looks like a fucking professional, in his jeans and tank top, his black gloves a bit shiny from the alcohol, a towel in one hand, and the gun in the other. Whoever taught Zayn how to do this over the years taught him well.

Harry can’t stop staring at him, at this boy in front of him, with his glasses and backwards snapback. It’s smooth, how he runs the needle across her skin like it’s a pen, just a simple pen, quick motions, before wiping away the excess with the towel. Over and over again, dipping into the ink on the corner of his desk, before moving back to hunch over her.

Zayn gets in a zone when he’s working, and it’s beautiful. He’s the artist, the one _making_ the art, creating something from nothing, and yet Harry doesn’t ever actually look at what he creates as it happens. Every time Harry comes to Zayn’s room, when Louis isn’t around so he won’t get caught staring, he barely even notices the tattoos themselves.

He only looks at Zayn.

“How’s it look?” Lennox finally says, her voice a little anxious at Harry in the room again, but not saying anything besides staring.

Harry clears his throat and blinks.

“Oh shit, yeah. Yeah, it looks great.”

“You hanging today?” Zayn murmurs, almost too quiet over the buzz of the needle for Harry to hear. It’s the second session Lennox has had with Zayn, after he did the initial drawing and various starter base parts of the piece that covers her side. In total, it'll be about seven hours worth of work.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Was bored. Thought I’d sit and watch the final result.”

“You didn’t bring us anything?” Zayn says over his shoulder with a smirk, using his shoulder to move his glasses up his nose.

“Root beer!” Harry suddenly remembers, presenting the two bottles. “Shit… Lennox, you should have mine.”

Lennox snorts a laugh and gives Harry a look. A calculating look. Piercing. Like Gemma would give him, or even one of Louis’s sisters.

“I’m good,” she says with a wink. “They’re for you two. Date night.”

Harry blinks a few more times and cracks the caps off of the bottles, before moving to set one near the ink on Zayn’s desk. Zayn mumbles a thank you, but keeps working. Harry uses the close proximity to actually study the tattoo Zayn created, the one he’s currently shading out on Lennox’s side.

It’s… a sight to behold. Harry saw the beginning stage of it, when it was nothing but a drawing in Zayn’s sketchpad, when he told him about it in Harry’s car. When it was halfway done, during the last session, all Harry remembers is the way Zayn’s hair fanned out onto his neck, the shirt he was wearing, the way he was barefoot. How his toes curled onto the wood floor when he concentrated hard.

But now it’s almost finished. Just about done. And it sort of takes Harry’s breath away. It’s a collage of sorts: the face of a large clock, a delicate rose, a string of music notes, woven together with other mementos of a lost life. A woman’s name inside a frame, with a set of dates. It’s for someone special.

“My mom,” Lennox says quietly.

Harry looks up at her face, to see the harshness faded a bit, her eyes a little bluer than he thought when he first saw them. Not as gray.

“It’s really something,” Harry assures her. “Once you see it, I just… Wow, I think… I think you’ll be very happy with it.”

Zayn, throughout the exchange, doesn’t stop working. He shakes his head a bit, like he’s embarrassed. But he doesn’t stop. A line with the gun, a wipe of the towel. A shade with the gun, a wipe of the towel.

But when Harry brings a hand to the back of Zayn’s neck and squeezes slightly, to tell him how lovely it is, he stills momentarily. Zayn lets Harry stand there, looking over his back at the skin of the girl on his bed, at his gloved hands on her, to place something on raw, untouched skin that he drew with the intent to give her something special, and he lets Harry do it.

It’s like in the woods, when their wrists touched.

It’s skin touching skin, and they’re both scorching.

 

***

 

It’s becoming increasingly harder for Harry to concentrate on anything other than Zayn Malik. It’s what Wallace reminded him of, when he caught Harry straight up giving a kick back to a freshman in the middle of the arts center, as if it was no big deal.

“Are you _insane?”_ Wallace hissed, pulling Harry by the elbow, so the freshmen band practice traipsing by couldn’t hear them. “I just saw you hand a baggie of something to that kid!”

“Wallace, we’ve been through this,” Harry said in mock disappointment, pressing at his eyelids, just to be a little shit. “That’s how an exchange of goods and services works. They pay me U.S. currency, in exchange for illegal narcotics.”

Wallace almost had a heart attack right then and there.

But it did remind Harry to be a bit more careful, when out in the open. Wallace is the only faculty member in his back pocket, the only one at F.M. who actually gives a shit if he’s caught. As Gemma told him years previously, if a Styles kid is caught red handed by anyone, Wallace goes down with them. She made a deal to ensure it.

Harry blames it on Zayn Malik, and those godforsaken shirts he always wears after classes, once he’s thrown his school blazer off. The ones that show off the chest pieces his cousin gave him over the last year: wings, the kiss of lips, random skulls wearing top hats.

He can’t focus on studying, so he begins to take a ridiculous amount of Adderall to stay awake. Jack has started to wrap a shirt around his head most nights, so the light from Harry’s desk won’t keep him up until dawn. He hasn’t even touched his college applications, which his father keeps reminding him of. _Columbia waits for no man, Harry._

Louis even gets mad at Harry one night, when they're supposed to be coming up with a plan to get Danielle to actually date Louis, instead of just sleeping with him when they were both hard up for it. The more Louis lounged on Harry’s bed, kicking at him with bare feet to pay attention to his sexting conversation with Danielle, the more distracted Harry felt. He kept looking at his own phone, with a frown.

If the universe were a fair and just place, Harry would have someone to sext. Someone with a vagina, preferably. Since he at least knows his way around one of those. A dick seems scarier. Certainly more intense and in your face, when aroused. But Harry doesn’t like to think about that sort of stuff, if he can help it.

“You know, I bet if I was Zayn, and we were fucked up in your posh little car right now, talking shit about our hopes and dreams, you’d give a shit,” Louis says with a sneer, pushing himself up off of Harry’s bed.

When he pushes past Jack, coming back into the room from having a hot shower, he almost knocks Harry’s entire dresser over just out of spite. Jack, never one to get himself involved in what he calls “Harry Drama,” just shrugs and steps to his closet.

So Harry tries to forget over the next few days, the closer they get to the end of the month, the overwhelming sense that he has too much shit to do and not enough time to do it in. He doesn’t go to his car, to see if Zayn is there in the passenger seat with his sketches, because Harry knows he’s not. They’re too busy. Tests, papers, grades. Applications. Faculty recommendations. Admission essays. Practicing for the entrance interviews in his head when his mind is racing, higher than a kite.

_Where do you see yourself in five years, Harry?_

_Uh, I don’t know._

_How about ten years?_

_That I definitely don’t know._

_What three adjectives best describe you?_

_Anxious. Rebellious. Gay._

_What do you want to do after you graduate college?_

_Go to the top of the Statue of Liberty._

_That’s not a real goal._

_Sure it is._

All of the seniors feel the stress just as equally, so Harry tries to keep it to himself. When Jack gets especially jumpy, when he paces their room conjugating Latin verbs over and over again, Harry tries to block him out with music. You can only offer someone something to take the edge off so many times before they start throwing foreign objects at your head. Harry turns towards his desk and faces the corner, music blaring in his headphones. He pretends both Jack Darcy and Columbia University don’t exist at all.

He’s too distracted and not distracted enough most nights, making his head feel like a blender left on High for too long.

One Thursday night, right when Jack seems to have settled himself slightly, shutting his books and turning off his desk lamp, a knock comes at the door. Jack and Harry look at each other warily, as if they’re both thinking it. They have a silent conversation.

_Did you invite someone over to sell? Or a girl to spend the night? We talked about this._

_Jesus, get a grip Darcy. I’m not a moron._

Harry goes to answer it, wearing just his boxers and a thin tshirt, expecting to find one of Jack’s study partners or his lame friend Brian, who plans their group’s Friday movie nights.

It’s Zayn.

“Hey,” he mumbles, eyes tired.

“Hey,” Harry can’t help but smile, like he hasn’t seen Zayn in days, instead of only a few hours since they sat together as a group at dinner. “What’s up?”

“Lou snuck Danielle into our room.”

“Say no more,” Harry says, opening himself up so that Zayn can step into the room. He didn’t bring anything with him, not a change of clothes, or his books. It’s like he left behind a burning house, nothing to his name at all. It’s just Zayn, in his gorgeous designer jeans and that Marc Jacobs shirt he bought off the fucking _rack_ , the bastard.

Jack, seeing Zayn Malik instead of someone looking to score, or a girl with flitting eyelashes, actually says hello. Harry frowns at that, the fact that Jack doesn’t see Zayn and think of pretty eyelashes. Zayn, who has the best looking face in their entire class.

He forgets as Jack asks Zayn if he needs a pillow and blanket for a makeshift bed.

“I’m good bro, thanks,” Zayn mumbles. Jack shrugs and goes back to getting ready to turn in for the night.

Zayn starts looking around at Harry’s pile of clean but unfolded laundry in the middle of the rug, before looking down at the one thing he did bring with him: his phone. It buzzes in his hand, and he must not like what he sees, because Harry sees his jaw jump. He looks about ready to throw it at a brick wall, to smash it to pieces.

Zayn starts to kick off his boots, like he’s going to get down on his knees.

“You should sleep in my bed,” Harry says quickly, realizing that both Jack and Zayn assumed Zayn would sleep on the floor.

Zayn stills his movements and looks at Harry, his jaw jumping again. Almost like he’s upset. Or confused. Or angry.

“I mean,” Harry shakes his head, “you know me, I can sleep anywhere. I love the floor. You sleep in my bed, I’ll sleep with my laundry.”

“I’m not taking your bed from you.”

“I won’t be able to sleep with you huffing and puffing from the floor,” Harry says, his hand suddenly on his hip from annoyance. “You hate the floor.”

Zayn doesn’t refute that.

“And I’m giving you clothes,” Harry finishes, walking to his dresser. He ends up handing over a pair of shorts and a Van Halen tshirt he found somewhere in the Meatpacking District when he was fourteen.

When the three boys eventually all settle in and all of the lights are shut off, Harry can’t help but wonder why Zayn came to him instead of Niall and Liam. Even though they have their thing, their space in the Jag, and their time when Harry watches Zayn tattoo their classmates, it still feels… weighted.

Like if Zayn needed a place to stay, somewhere comfortable and safe to sleep, to wear the clothing of someone else, it should’ve been in the room of a boy besides Harry Styles. And yet there they are, Harry on the floor staring up at his ceiling, and Zayn in his bed, wearing his shirt.

That doesn’t mean _nothing_.

Harry grew up on 61st and Park. He went to prestigious schools his entire life. And Zayn was practically MENSA, almost tested out of fourth grade. At the end of the day, they’re very smart young men.

So when Harry eventually looks over at his bed, to see Zayn looking down at him with unblinking eyes, before quickly turning over to face the wall, Harry should’ve realized what that meant.

 

***

 

Harry has zero interest in attending Dartmouth, the same way Liam could care less about BC and Niall barely remembers Princeton is a real place. But it’s a necessary evil, applying to the Ivys their parents require of them. So once Zayn hits send on his Notre Dame application and Louis screams, “Fuck you, Yale! I’m done!” all five of them have sent in their most tedious (and useless) applications. And they certainly all need the release.

They’re in Niall and Liam’s room, since they claim it’s “bigger,” and start the celebration early by lighting one of Harry’s biggest and best joints. OG Kush, rolled by one of Harry’s favorite guys in SoHo.

“I told everyone to meet us there by ten,” Louis mumbles around the slightly damp rolling paper between his lips. “Said if we’re the ones throwing it, these fuckers better be on time, and bring good alcohol, too.”

“Amen,” Harry agrees, reaching for the joint.

They pass it around until it’s nothing but ash, until Harry can’t really feel his toes, which is a good sign. The five of them planned on throwing their own bonfire for everyone, at the same secret location in the woods. They all spread the word throughout the day, to meet up later that night in good clothes, instead of the usual sweats and comfortable shit they normally wear in the woods. Before it started to get really cold, before the first snowfall, Niall made a comment about seeing the girls front and center, in low cut dresses and tops.

Which is exactly what they’re reminded of, as Niall gestures to his own chest, at what it would be like to have tits sitting there all the time.

“I’d never stop playing with them,” he mumbles, with a lazy wink.

Harry almost pisses his pants he laughs so hard. Zayn, sitting right next to him on Niall’s bed, throws a pair of panties stuffed under Niall’s pillow, a memento from his time with Ruth, right at Niall’s face. Harry laughs so hard, Zayn has to catch him by the arm before he falls over onto the floor.

And then Louis drops the bomb onto him, snapping him out of it immediately, practically fucking him up beyond repair.

“We need to get you two laid,” he says wiping at his face, flicking a finger between Harry and Zayn.

Zayn blinks at Louis, his eyelids moving at a glacial pace, like they do when he’s especially blazed. It’s one of Harry’s favorite versions of Zayn: when he’s mellow and calm, not like when he’s just been tattooing someone and he’s tight and wound like a guitar string. Harry likes Zayn both ways, but this is good. When all of his body parts, his eyelids and lithe fingers and impossibly long arms, all know to take it easy. To relax.

Harry blinks, realizing he hasn’t answered Louis’s declaration.

“Why?”

“Because the _rest_ of us have been fucking around, like we said we would,” Louis huffs, like it’s obvious, grabbing for the underwear from Niall, to throw it back at Zayn. He gets Danielle to finally be his sort-of girlfriend, and suddenly he thinks he knows everything. “And _you_ two have been sitting around in Harry’s car night after night, reading lame books and talking about lame shit.”

Zayn rolls his eyes with a laugh.

Harry frowns.

“Amy seems into it,” Liam agrees from the floor, kicking back to put his feet up against the wall, looking at Zayn upside down. “S’what Julie said.”

“And Mo is seriously still into you, Harry. I don’t know what your problem is,” Louis shakes his head like he’s disappointed.

“Try talking to her tonight, feel it out,” Niall says with a shrug, shoving at Liam’s legs so his feet don’t dirty up their wall. Then he smiles and says, “You still have my condom, right?”

Harry wonders if anyone found it, the condom he threw from his car that night, the night he thought Zayn hooked up with Amy. He looks over at Zayn, who is smiling like the rest of the boys, all of them chilled and satiated as the sun starts to set over the tree line outside the window.

Zayn’s smile lights up the whole fucking room.

Harry realizes they’re sitting close, their thighs almost touching. It wouldn’t look weird to the rest of their friends, two of them sitting side-by-side, body parts touching. The five of them touch each other all the time. Kisses on cheeks, hugs, even smacks to the nuts. They sit close, jokingly cuddle for warmth between classes, bite at each other’s necks until it hurts. But for Harry, to be next to Zayn, it means something. And it has meant something, for weeks now.

He’s not sure why he does it, but some part of his brain tells him to try it out. See how it feels. Push Zayn’s buttons a bit. Harry moves his hand slightly on the bed, hidden by his thigh so no one can see, and runs the back of his left pointer finger over Zayn’s thigh. It’s a simple hello, maybe. He doesn’t look at Zayn, or acknowledge what he’s doing. But he hopes maybe his finger sends a little message.

_Hey you. Can you believe this? Our friends are dicks. But they’re ours, aren’t they. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them._

Zayn tenses next to him. Harry feels it, Zayn’s muscle cramping underneath the denim.

His finger stills. He stops. He moves his hand back.

The boys touch each other all the time, but Zayn must know it’s different with Harry. He must get it. That Harry wants something else. That Harry thinks about it differently now.

Boys. Dicks. Touching Zayn, watching Zayn, bringing him root beer and seeing whiskey drip down his chin, wondering if he fucked a girl.

_My thoughts create my world._

Harry almost smacks himself in the forehead, his face suddenly red and embarrassed. He moves his hands to his lap, to clasp his fingers together, so he’s not tempted to touch again. Suddenly he feels like puking. He should call Gemma. He shouldn’t go to the party, or hang out with Zayn anymore, or acknowledge any of the thoughts in his head. If he’s freaking out because he’s high, if he’s having a paranoia trip, he should go take a Xanax and sleep for sixteen hours.

Suddenly, the panties once again come out of nowhere and hit Harry square in the face. He looks up, bewildered, to see four faces staring at him. The fabric fell into his lap. Some red, lacy thing he never imagined Ruth wearing. Pretty and dainty.

“What?”

“We’re all going to nap for a bit and then shower,” Liam says, gesturing to the door. “We'll come grab you later.”

“Okay.”

“And you missed it, Spacey: Zayn just agreed to hook up with Amy tonight. He said he was going to finally close the deal, so that just leaves _you_ ,” Louis says, pinching Harry’s cheek as he stands up. “You’re my new project.”

Harry looks to his left, to take in Zayn’s profile. Zayn doesn’t look at him. He just looks down at his phone, where he has a text open. Probably to her. To the girl he likes. Because he likes girls.

Harry blinks a few times, as he too stands. He should go to sleep. He’s been very stressed. He shouldn’t do this. He can see it not ending well. But as he grabs his boots and laptop from the dorm floor, he glances at Zayn again. He still hasn’t looked up at Harry, not since Harry’s finger found its way to his leg.

_Look at how okay I am._

_Look at me._

And in that moment, Harry knows what he needs to do instead.

 

***

 

Harry lost his virginity over winter break of their freshmen year. It was to Dalia Distenfeld, the youngest of the famous Distenfeld dynasty known throughout New York. If the rumors are to be believed, her grandfather William Randall Distenfeld was targeted by the mob back in the forties. He apparently had an insane amount of property throughout the city, and he practically ran the Mayor’s office from his smoke room in the Baccarat Hotel on West 53rd where he lived year round.

As Harry told Louis, Liam, and Niall later, as they ate frozen waffles in the dining hall in the middle of the night once they got back to campus, it was... okay. Sure, Dalia went a little too fast, even when Harry told her to slow down or else he’d nut all over the place before it even got good. That got a howl out of Louis, who had been fucking his French tutor’s niece for at least three months beforehand. He thought he was some expert at it, which was wholly unrealistic.

Harry, the third of them to lose his virginity behind Louis and Niall, had to admit he wasn’t exactly well versed at it, as the boys cried with laughter. Up until then he’d only had a few sloppy hand jobs. Harry let them laugh because it wasn’t unfair of them, seeing as how Harry _knew_ the experience wasn’t anything Dalia would write in her diary about. He fumbled around too much, his fingers got caught up in her hair when she tried to climb on top of him, and he snapped her bra against her skin _twice_ when he went to remove it. She probably felt bad for him, honestly.

He didn’t know if he should play with her breasts or nipples, if that was stupid of him to even try, so he ended up just… cupping them a bit, as she fucked herself down onto his lap after they sneaked up to his room in the middle of his parents’ holiday party. Liam almost coughed up his food at the visual: Harry in his pajama pants, with a waffle hanging out of his mouth, hands up to hold phantom tits.

At least Harry can say his first time was memorable, unlike Zayn who blacked out for his, drunk on shitty vodka. Or Liam, who was so nervous about the condom breaking, he told the girl he was just going to “rock into her a bit” so as to not create much friction.

Harry’s first time wasn’t perfect. But it opened up the floodgates.

His first time was with Dalia Distenfeld, a girl he had known for years from within their social circle, someone he still texts from time to time to say hello. Plump lips, hair that fell just so above her collar bones, feet that were a little too big, which he sort of adored about her. They messed around that following summer too, when they both were in the city and bored.

Harry got better at it, which was... fine. He was never afraid to tear into clothing again, never snapped another bra strap on accident. Once Dalia showed him how to hold her hips just right, once he listened to her even when she wasn’t saying anything, he got it. After Dalia, he could make a girl come with just his tongue, could crook his fingers to hit that sweet spot inside someone so he could feel her entire body tense up beneath him, could rip open condoms with his teeth.

Harry might’ve been a lame, virginal square once, for a very short period of time as a freshman at Foster Montgomery. And he may be a confused mess of a human being now, as he contemplates what the fuck he’s doing these days.

But at the heart of it, Harry got better. He _is_ better. He can fuck around, can fuck girls, can make them want him. He’s good at it. Maybe even _great_. He can put on his best Saint Laurent shirt, the black and white patterned one, sleeves rolled up to show off his arms, and black jeans with holes in the knees, tucked over his motorcycle boots. They’re the black boots his mother picked up for him in Paris, the ones she said all the models were wearing, because she said Harry could model if he wanted to. “Handsome boy.”

_Look at me._

He can look at himself in the mirror in his room, at his clear complexion, wide eyes, and longer-than-ever hair, and think, _look at me._

Harry grabs for his phone, keys, and large black Tom Ford duffle like he’s going away on a long trip, and he gives himself one more look. He cocks his head and takes his reflection in.

If this is how it is, if this is how it has to be, then Harry can go along with it. If Zayn won’t dare to look at him, maybe tonight everyone else will.

Harry will make them.

 

***

 

Even though the fire had already been lit before Harry arrived on his own, it’s like the raging flames become bigger as soon as he steps into the small clearing. Harry had urged the boys to go without him earlier, when they knocked on his door and he opened it in just a towel. He didn’t notice if Zayn noticed.

Harry wanted to come alone, to make an entrance, because he wants to do the night on his own, for once. Gemma had texted _miss you_ earlier that night, but when Harry typed it back, he only halfway meant it.

Because he likes that he’s the only Styles kid here tonight. No Gemma, no one to help or assist him, no boys to hide behind. The one. He wants to truly feel like _their guy_ for the first time this year: F.M.’s dealer. Their one and only provider for all things necessary to get completely obliterated after the insane few weeks they’ve had.

They cheer for him, all of his classmates and even some of the juniors who are cool enough to join in. Harry soaks it up, lathers in it like it’s his special body wash to keep the red bumps on his shoulders at bay, as various classmates kiss his cheeks and tell him how good he looks. Mo, in a pair of gorgeous red jeans and tight little sweater, her cleavage spilling out like it did the last time they were around this fire, gives Harry a look. That look.

And instead of running from it, or wondering where Zayn is, or what it would feel like to have a dick in his ass, Harry returns the look. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t back down. He smiles at her. That classic Harry Styles smile that could knock someone right off their feet. She blinks a few times, surprised, but then she bites her lip a bit. Because she knows.

Tonight is finally the night.

“Alright you fucking heathens,” Harry says, turning in a little circle, his bag between his palms. “Who would like to pick their poison?”

Over the heads of some of the soccer players, Harry sees Louis whisper something to Liam, the two of them holding a few beers and smoking Marlboro Lights even though they’re fucking gross.

But Harry doesn’t worry about them, or what they’re saying about him, not tonight. If Louis really does want Harry as his “new project,” it’s already too late. Harry gave Mo the Smile. He’s done the work for himself.

Harry stops paying attention to the boys, to his thoughts, to everything that doesn’t involve his Tom Ford bag. He just laughs and sells, his hand groping around in the bag for various amounts of coke, weed, and pills. He moves around the party, shaking hands, making change for hundreds, kissing girls.

And then _finally_ someone asks about the 2-CB, which Harry barely ever sells. There’s always too much to get done throughout the school week to go on the PG-13 version of an acid trip, so it always sits in his bottom drawer completely untouched. But apparently since it’s almost the end of October, and most of their applications have been sent out, the seniors of Foster Montgomery Prep are ready to _forget_. Harry’s just glad he brought some with him.

At one point, after Harry has taken a few bumps from his own coke and has a mixed drink in his hand, he sits on a wooden stump and Mackenzie Highdecker ends up on his lap. She wants it, Harry can tell. She was appointed by her group of friends to get the low down. They’re curious. The pill could be scary.

But Harry wouldn’t sell them anything scary, he thinks.

“No you wouldn’t,” Mackenzie reads his fucking mind, winking at him.

A little group has formed around him as he shakes his head in disbelief. He lets her squirm on his lap, his dick even getting a little hard from it, as they crowd around him. They want in. They want to try.

So he puts on a show, like how Gemma taught him all those years ago when their aunt bought them a mini teatro with red stage curtains, to put on puppet shows about princes and thieves. Harry’s face lights up, like he’s about to tell a good ghost story, as he explains to them what to do. How to take it just right, to make it good.

“I’ll only give it to you, if you promise to be safe,” Harry says solemnly, nodding up at Mackenzie. She blinks and nods at him, her fingers at the base of his neck, as she listens rapturously with her friends. They’re all from Boston, so it makes sense for them to be the most fun and adventurous. Harry almost says _hey I saw you give head in the woods once, I know how you like to have fun_ to her, but he refrains.

“I will, Harry. I promise,” Mackenzie says sweetly. The other girls agree, even Anthony and his teammates nod along, ready for instructions. People trust Harry, just like they used to trust Gemma. When a Styles kid talks, when they tell you what to take and how to take it, you listen. That’s always been their edge.

“15 milligrams,” Harry says with a smirk, reaching for the pill baggy in his bag. He talks about his drugs like he’d talk about a pie recipe. Licks his lips, even. Really _sells_ it. “It’ll give you a nice, solid three hour trip. Giggly, fun, _euphoria_.”

As Harry gives his speech, as they all hold out their hands in excitement, he senses the new arrival of bodies behind him. The four boys Harry would trust with his life, probably coming back from talking about him, there to tell him to ease up.

Harry feels a hand on his neck, knows it’s Louis. His hand says _be careful H, I know you want to get fucked up tonight, get_ them _fucked up too, but it’s still early._

Harry ignores him. He doesn’t even turn around. Because he doesn’t want to see Zayn standing besides Lou, wearing that black shirt with the white stripes going up the arms.

“You’ll love it,” Harry says with a bigger smile, placing a pill directly onto Mackenzie’s tongue. “But be careful of the come up, babe. If you’re prone to puking, if you haven’t eaten anything tonight, let’s have some water.”

More people have started to arrive, latecomers to the party Harry and his friends put together for the night. Seniors who never come to the parties, curious to have some fun after the craziness of applications and before midterms. More juniors. Even a few sophomores.

Amy DiSante and her roommate.

Harry blinks a few times and focuses back on the group, the girl in his lap, realizing what it means for Amy to be there, to be here, so close by. He can hear Zayn offering her a drink, so he still doesn’t look.

But he’s not done yet. He has to bring them home.

“Come find me if you need to smoke a bowl on the come down, alright?” Harry says calmly, a slow smile creeping up his face. Serene, happy, carefree Harry Styles. He just became their best friend for the evening, as music gets turned up louder and Anthony starts eying Mackenzie’s lips.

“S’it gonna be good, Harry?” one of the girls asks, hopeful, smiling with stars in her eyes.

“It’s gonna be _great_ ,” Harry assures them, bopping the girl on the nose. “I want you to have a clear, positive headspace, okay? All of you. Trust me. This will magnify your feelings and emotions, so if you’re thinking negateve thoughts… No worries. No stress. Good vibes with your best friends here, right? Hakuna Matata this shit.”

They all laugh at that, at silly Harry Styles who could sell water to a fish. That’s how he leaves the little group to the left of the alcohol, the brave souls ready to accept the night ahead of them. Harry isn’t mean-spirited and he doesn’t enjoy watching his friends trip their balls off, but it’s not the worst job perk in the world. Harry moves away from them with his drink and can’t help but smile again, as he watches them start to zone out.

Mackenzie ends up sitting on Anthony’s lap next, her knees knocking together as she falls against his chest. They’re cute together, which Harry rather likes. They aren’t officially dating, and they don’t take themselves too seriously. But the bare bones are there. The groundwork to a relationship. A partnership. As Harry watches them flirt, he realizes he’s rooting for them.

“Did you take some too?” comes a voice behind his ear.

Harry turns to face Zayn, no longer smiling, his face blank. If Zayn recognized the two people Harry was just staring at so longingly, the ones they watched in the woods together, he doesn’t say so.

“No.”

“That’s probably best,” Zayn nods, sipping at his beer. “If they all try to go off into the woods, chasing after unicorns and fairies, some of us should probably be coherent enough to bring them back.”

Zayn smiles at him, tries to engage Harry in a joke. But Harry doesn’t take the bait. Zayn, in his fucking Gucci and Burberry, with those pants with the fucking cutouts near the thighs, something Harry could _never_ in a million years pull off. His hair styled up like he tried to look good for her, his facial hair grown in and masculine, manly, burly.

Harry turns towards the fire instead.

“Where’s Amy?”

“I don’t know, probably around here somewhere.”

“Give her my best.”

“H, are you mad at me?” Zayn questions, his hand pulling at Harry’s elbow lightly.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“You don’t know what I look like when I’m lying,” Harry says, turning towards Zayn. He takes a dramatic gulp of his drink, the whiskey-to-Diet Coke ratio way off. It’s too strong. He needs about three more.

“Yes I do, of course I do,” Zayn frowns, like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of his mouth.

Harry rolls his eyes. If Zayn wanted to be dense and ignore all of the signs, then that’s well within his rights. But Harry can ignore them too. And for him to do that, for him to ignore everything, all of it, every _single_ new fucking piece of himself, he needs to fuck someone tonight. A _girl_. And standing around talking to sex-on-a-stick Zayn Malik won’t help him accomplish that.

“Have a good night, Zayn,” Harry finishes, toasting him.

He leaves Zayn standing there, that confused look still on his face like it would be stuck there forever. He finds his other friends, jumps onto Liam’s back because Liam always catches him no matter what. He kisses him for it, on his cheek, his chin, his other cheek. He hugs Niall over and over, thanks him for being so nice all the time, for being their dad away from home. Louis, who seemed to be permanently stuck to Danielle’s face, comes up for air every so often, his mouth red from her lipstick, and Harry makes sure to hold Louis by the face and talk to him twelve different times, the coke making him fast and motor-mouthed, his words forming always forming into some variation of, _you’re my best friend, aren’t you Lou, we’re the best of friends forever, no matter who we room with right, am I your best friend? Say I’m your best friend, say it so people can hear it._

Maureen finds him throughout the night, their fingers brushing every time they pass by each other. Harry tells her she looks beautiful. She blushes and pretends like she doesn’t know. She compliments Harry’s boots.

And when they’re both too drunk to pretend any longer, they eventually make their way away from the group, to furiously make out against a tree. It’s just that Harry has the nagging thought that someone could be watching them. Which he must say out loud?

“No one’s watching,” Mo murmurs against his lips, as she presses his back into the bark.

“Some people like to watch,” Harry says in a whisper, his lips numb from the whiskey, his brain frazzled from the coke. He can taste the chemical of it in the back of his throat, stuck up in his snot and nostrils. “You never know.”

Mo brings a hand to his dick, and applies pressure to it through his jeans. Harry inhales a sharp breath. This is finally it, after years of build up. Maureen Voorhees, the girl who used to lend him history notes and give him back rubs after long lifting sessions with Liam, the future Doctor Without Borders who can fill out a little sweater to the point that it almost hurts to look at her.

Harry can’t help but close his eyes as she reaches for his belt, the blood rushing to his dick too slowly, like his insides are made of syrup. He feels slowed down. Heavy.

He realizes he’s just like Anthony Yates out here, away from the fire where no one is supposed to see. He has a girl, a really nice girl with so many better options than fuck up Harry Styles, willing to touch him intimately. This is it, he has it. He’s _done it_. He set out for this tonight, to have Mo just like this. _Not upset, not worried, not crazy over someone who is only a best friend, not gay, not gay, not gay._

“So what do you wanna do?” Maureen asks in a low voice, as she brackets one of Harry’s thighs between her legs. She leans back and looks at him, her eye makeup slightly smudged, her bottom lip a bit puffy from Harry biting at it.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, his hand coming down to… stop, maybe. But he’s cut off when two people come stumbling towards them on the narrow path barely lit by moonlight.

Mo, scared half to death, falls into Harry’s chest. They look towards the incoming noise, only to see Zayn and Amy coming into view, giggling like fucking kindergartners over god only knows what.

And since it’s not a psychopath or murderer, Mo exhales and laughs when she and Amy lock eyes. They smirk at the situation, two boys at their mercy.

“Oh shit,” Amy says, holding a hand up to her mouth, and gesturing to Zayn with the other. “We…”

Harry stares at Zayn. Zayn stares at Harry.

Zayn’s jeans had already come undone. Either he undid his belt and fly himself, or Amy did it for him as they made their way to where Harry now stands.

They both know why they came to this spot tonight. This oddly secluded spot between short trees, not too far from the fire. But just far away enough to have some privacy. A place where a boy can lean back against a tree so that a girl can kneel between his legs. A place for couples with inside jokes and cute stories, who hold hands as they walk between buildings and kiss under the famous Arch statue some asshole alum built that is supposedly good luck.

Harry hits a palm back against the tree to get some forward momentum. His skin rips open in the process, his movements too jerky and harsh, the coke squicking him out.

“Harry,” Mo tries to say, reaching for him, confused.

But Harry shakes her off and rushes past Zayn and Amy before anyone can say anything else, before anyone can decide who gets the spot. To see which of them, Zayn or Harry, would be Anthony Yates for the night.

It couldn’t be Harry. He didn’t want it to be after all.

_My thoughts create my world._

Harry stumbles his way back to the party, his boots fucked from all the dirt and pine needles. He’ll have to send for them to get polished. Louis tries to talk to him, sees something is wrong. But Harry only has eyes for his bag. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t engage, even as all of his friends and classmates call to him. He’s their guy, the one who keeps them high as kites, satiated, numb. But his thoughts are all over the place, a huge jumble of conflicting images.

He needs to get out of there.

 

***

 

Harry gets to the Jag in record time. Thankful that he also brought his keys along with his drugs, he slumps into the driver’s seat and lays his head against the steering wheel, too drunk for his own good. _Careful of the horn, Harry._

Everything had been working, until it hadn’t.

Zayn ruins everything.

Except Maureen touched his dick like so many other girls have, and suddenly the thought of it made Harry want to vomit up his liquor.

For some reason, as Harry’s breathing slows and his eyes slide shut, he thinks about when he lost his virginity a few years back. How unprepared he felt. How it didn’t feel the way he thought it was supposed to, this big eye-opening experience that ignites a spark to go “spread his seed” or whatever. He’s fucked around ever since that first time with Dalia, without a second thought about who or what he is, until now.

When he realized all he ever did, every girl he ever touched, was an experiment, a by-the-books experience, to form a roster he thought every boy was supposed to have. A number. Nasty sex shit to talk about between young men, when they sat around and got drunk together.

When he watched a sex act in the woods with another boy and could only concentrate on the parts where _their_ body parts touched.

When he saw Zayn standing on a darkened dirt path just now with his jeans undone and a girl on his arm about ready to blow him.

 _Fuck_.

Zayn in the woods with his jeans undone. Now that’s a sight for sore eyes. Harry breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, his hands tightening around the steering wheel, as he pictures Zayn’s shirt buttons. How when he moves just right, his tattoos peek out.

Amy may be on her knees right then, giving Zayn her mouth. A hand on his hip, the other hand at the base of his cock, because maybe Zayn’s too big for her to handle. Harry wouldn’t know. Harry has been naked in front of all his friends, was even called Big Dick Styles for a while, but he’s never seen Zayn naked.

He exhales, his eyes slightly damp.

He’s good at making girls feel good. He could probably make a boy feel good too, if he tried hard enough. Harry’s a hard worker, when he sets his mind to something. He leans back in his car then, and envisions a dick in his hand, a dick that isn’t his. How he’d hold it. How heavy it would feel, if it tasted a tad salty. Instead of Mackenzie or Amy on their knees out in the woods, what if it was Harry someday?

Knees cut up from the forest floor, jaw aching, a tear forming in his eye because it’s so much, so fast, so nerve wracking. Anyone could see him like that, Harry Styles the golden boy, with a _boy_ between his lips.

Harry presses a hand down to his jeans where they’ve started to tent. His blood doesn’t feel so thick anymore. It rushes to his dick, to his balls, his entire lower half suddenly heavy for real. Heady, with arousal and want and energy. The feel of fucking up into something, into someone, their hand or their mouth. Their ass.

Fucking Christ, Harry thinks. He slams his eyes shut, wondering what that would be like. Would he like fucking a boy like that? Or would he be the one on all fours, or on his back, his knees up to his chest, looking up at someone with a _beard_.

Harry almost starts to cry as his cock throbs painfully, but he doesn’t. He holds it in. He swallows it.

_What three adjectives best describe you?_

_Anxious. Rebellious. Gay._

He’s just about to get a grip, to open his eyes and go back into the dorm. He’ll do what he’s been doing for weeks, when these thoughts get into his head and he can’t get them out. He’ll go to the shared bathroom on their floor and jerk off over the toilet. He’ll fuck his fist until he’s practically heaving with it.

He can’t do it here. He can’t sleep here either. He needs to take off his boots.

But then like a bolt of lightening, too fast for Harry to process if it’s even real or if he just imagined it, Zayn’s opening the passenger door and falling into the car besides him.

Harry hurries to cover his tented erection with both hands, his eyes wide as he stares at the boy next to him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Harry can’t help but ask, his words slightly slurred.

“You left,” Zayn says, out of breath. “You were pissed off and the boys said you grabbed your shit in a hurry.”

“So?”

“So I knew you’d be here,” Zayn says, angry. “And I didn’t want you to be by yourself. You’re fucked up.”

“ _You’re_ fucked up,” Harry says with a frown of his own. “I can smell you, you reek of alcohol.”

“Oh, real mature. Let’s play the ‘who is more messed up’ game right now, that’s just great.”

Zayn crosses his arms.

“I didn’t ask you to come here,” Harry says, turning in the seat so he can look at Zayn more fully. “I left you with Amy, exactly where you wanted to be, Zayn. So fucking _go_. Go be with her, go fuck her in the woods, I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”

“No,” Zayn ignores him. “I’m not leaving.”

Harry grinds his teeth together and shifts to look out the front window, one again gripping the wheel. Zayn fucking Malik ruins everything. All Harry wanted to do, once he got away from the party and the people in the woods, was to be alone. To think about the things he can’t talk about, especially with the one person currently sitting in his car who refuses to acknowledge the signs. Harry just wants to be by himself, to be alone in his head with the confusing things, the new parts of himself, these images he can’t seem to shake.

_Boys. You, Zayn._

Harry realizes he’s still hard, and puts a hand back down in his lap, to cover his erection before Zayn can notice. If Zayn freaked out over Harry’s finger, he sure as shit would freak out over Harry’s dick.

Harry chances a glance to his right, to see if he’s been caught, and almost jumps a foot into the air.

He _has_ been caught, because Zayn’s looking. He knows. He stares at it, in his drunken haze, the tented denim of Harry’s crotch that one hand can barely conceal. Harry’s jaw drops as his cock jerks in his briefs, a bit of precome leaking out.

Zayn stares at it, unblinking, a hand scratching at the hair of his own temple, for a few more seconds. And then he must realize what he’s done, what he’s _doing_ , because he slowly brings his head up and looks at Harry’s face.

They lock eyes and Zayn’s entire head, neck, and chest flare up like he’s embarrassed. Horrified. Seconds away from an aneurysm. They’ve both been caught in the Jag tonight, it seems.

Zayn snaps out of it and looks towards the front window, his breath slightly off kilter, his face a mess of emotion. His hands shake a bit as they run up and down his thighs, like his palms are sweaty and he can’t control it.

And since Harry Styles is a fucking asshole, who went into the night with the sole intention of forcing the world to watch him, _look at me everyone, come look at how amazing I am_ , he gives up. He just… gives up. Instead of thinking it through, or looking into it further, Harry reaches for his belt. In three seconds flat, it’s undone and open.

Zayn practically gasps at the sound, as he realizes what Harry’s done. But he still stares straight ahead, so Harry looks down at his own lap. To concentrate.

He pops the button of his jeans. He reaches for the zipper.

“Harry,” Zayn whispers, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. He still won’t look over. Not again.

“If you wanna go, then go,” Harry says quietly. _I didn’t invite you into my car. I never did in the first place. You’re the one who followed me tonight, you’re the one who made the choice._

Zayn doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move.

Harry slides the zipper down so that his belt and jeans splay open in his lap. The only thing hiding his hard, leaking cock from the rest of the world is a thin layer of black cotton. His favorite Calvin Klein briefs.

Zayn still doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, doesn’t look.

Before he can stop himself, before his brain can settle itself from the cocaine he railed while at the party, Harry reaches a hand under his briefs and pulls out his dick. He’s so achingly hard, he almost moans at the touch.

The windows have started to fog up, from their breathing. Zayn, drunk and messy and sweating slightly, sits up in the seat. Like he’s fully engaged or watching a car accident take place right in front of the hood. But he still doesn’t look.

Harry strokes his cock a few times, to really let himself _have_ it. It feels like ages since he’s done this in a comfortable position, sitting back, enjoying it, instead of hunched over a porcelain toilet because Jack Darcy is a twat.

He pulls himself off slowly. Twists his wrist a little firmer up at the head, applies that little bit of pressure he’s always needed to get there. The car smells like Zayn’s cologne, like a man, and that more than anything else sets Harry’s senses into overdrive. He bites his lip as he jerks himself off, precome sliding down onto his fingers.

Zayn still won’t look. But he hasn’t left. He’s still here. _You’re still here. You liked watching Anthony and you could like watching me, if you’d try. Look at me._ Harry stares at the side of Zayn’s face, at the perfect line to his stubble, and practically wills it into being as his arm moves faster. _Come on, Zayn. Look at me. Watch me. This is for you._

Zayn doesn’t budge.

Harry removes his hand so he can spit into his palm, loudly, before getting back to work. That does something to Zayn, the sound, because he squirms on the leather seat and inches his way towards the door.

It’s never felt like this before. Never been this good to touch himself. And Harry can’t tell if it’s because he’s in the presence of a boy, or because it’s _Zayn_. Maybe it’s because anyone could walk by and see him. Or because he always thought this was wrong. _Gay._ Or maybe not wrong, but not _him_ , not Harry. His thoughts keep running, and the faster they go, the faster he moves his hand.

He’s close.

 _“Fuck,”_ Harry can’t help but whisper, his other hand now on his balls.

Zayn inhales sharply.

But he still won’t look.

Harry desperately wants Zayn to see him come, to hear the sound he makes when he releases up onto his stomach. He wants it to look good, to be good, for Zayn as a spectator. It’s like real life porn, to be there next to someone as they do the most intimate thing a person can do to their own body. _Look at me, come on. Come on, Zayn._

But Zayn still won’t look. He stares ahead at the trees, his mouth in a pinched line, sweat along his forehead, hands on his knees.

Harry gives himself the final push. He thinks about Zayn and the way his hands look when he’s drawing the beginnings of a sketch. How he hunches in his desk chair when he tattoos their classmates. How he never overcharges or asks for more money, even when the sessions go hours longer than they should have because people keep asking him for more ideas. _Tattoos are addictive, Harry._ That’s what Zayn said once, with a wink and an arm around Harry’s waist. _You’ll see. I’ll give you one someday. And before you know it, you’ll be on your knees, begging me for fifty more._

Harry thinks he would quite like being on his knees, if Zayn asked.

“Fuck,” Harry grunts, his hand tightening at the head. He looks away from Zayn’s profile and focuses on his cock. His entire body tenses up and then he’s done for.

He comes over his fingers, stripes of it pulsating down his fist, up onto the sliver of exposed stomach, even on his nice shirt. He breathes through it, his eyes crazed and wild, as he takes in the fact that he can’t stop.

It feels like it lasts minutes instead of seconds.

When Harry turns his head to look over at Zayn, praying with all his might that Zayn watched him at the last second, he’s disappointed.

Zayn didn’t look. He didn’t watch. He sat in the same position, but now with his arms crossed again. He stared straight ahead. He missed it.

Harry removes his messy hand from around himself and looks between them on the seat, or on the floor, for something to wipe it on. A napkin or towel maybe. But he keeps his car spotless, so he doesn’t have any options.

He opens his mouth to say something to Zayn, maybe about his gross hand, or about how they should go inside. Definitely not about their present situation, or how they arrived at this precipice. Harry does not ask if Zayn liked it, liked hearing it at least, even though he wants to. He wants to say so many things. But his hand has started to get too sticky, and he’s just… unsure what to say.

Zayn makes it easy on the both of them. Without a backwards glance, without any further conversation, Zayn opens the door and climbs out, his hands fumbling with the mechanics of how to shut it behind him.

Harry is left there in the Jag, alone, with jizz all over himself and a frown on his face.

Alone.

 

***

 

When the five boys reconvene the next morning, it’s around a small table in the dining hall that Niall saved for them because as always, he arrived first. Various students mill about getting their breakfasts, just as shitty looking as the boys, hung over and coming down from the pills Harry sold them all. At least they had fun, Harry thinks.

As they begin to fall into chairs around him, Niall eyes his four friends in their various states of dishevelment and feels sorry for them. He says it’s the Irish in him that keeps him from being hung over beyond a small headache or a tad bit of dehydration. Harry fucks with Niall’s hair as he sits, wordlessly. Too exhausted to care or say much else to the other boys.

In his most disgusting tank top, Louis holds up a hand before Niall can say anything, and points to his ears with a grimace. It's as if to say, _too loud, Nialler, not before I’ve had some caffeine. And eggs. And two chocolate chip muffins._

Liam, who after the party must’ve snuck into Julie’s room if the lazy smile on his face is anything to go by, settles at the table with a “protein plate” full of dead animal: eggs, bacon, sausage, ham. He flicks Louis on the forehead to pay attention, and then pulls at his shirt to show them his hickeyed neck.

“How bad is it?” he smiles, his eyes disappearing entirely. Even in his haze, Harry is glad that _this_ Liam is back. Happy, dopey Liam.

“Looks like you fucked a leech, my friend,” Niall says, cheering him with coffee. “Well done.”

Liam shrugs, the smug bastard, before buttering the stack of toast in the center of the table, tossing pieces onto the five plates. Niall starts pouring their orange juice. Harry, who up until then had tried to make himself look and feel as small as possible by curling up to lay his face down on the table, doesn’t last much longer. They can never just let him _be_.

“These two look like the walking dead,” Louis says quietly, his lips around a coffee cup.

Harry feels a nudge to his shin. And Zayn, across from him with his head in his hands, as if it’s about to crack open like a melon and he can barely hold it together, must feel a nudge as well.

“Stop, Lou,” he murmurs with an edge to his voice. “I’m fucking tired.”

“You both look pretty shitty,” Niall agrees. “Rough night, boys?”

Harry finally lifts his head from the table, his greasy hair falling across his pale face, still in the same clothes from the night before. He didn’t even try to go to his room after what happened in the Jag. He didn’t feel like begging Jack to let him in, drunk, high, and smelling of come. And he definitely didn’t want to be around his friends, or the girls they were fucking. So he slept on the cramped couch in the student lounge, his boots and bag tucked underneath it.

He probably _does_ look like death.

Zayn scratches at his face for a moment, eyes never leaving the table, even when Harry looks over at him. He stares daggers, willing Zayn to say something. To look at him, acknowledge him, say good morning. Anything.

Zayn pulls at the top of his hair a bit, as the three boys around them stare at both Zayn and Harry, for some explanation about where they both went off to the night before.

Zayn still won’t look at Harry.

And that’s how Harry knows what is about to happen before it happens, because it’s happened before. And it’ll probably happen again. He exhales a breath and gives up.

Harry lays his head back down, right as Zayn speaks.

“Don’t remember anything. Was drunk, left the bonfire and must’ve… went straight to bed.”

Another kick to his shin means the boys want Harry to speak. To prove he’s alive. He kicks back, his foot catching someone in the knee, and covers his head with his arms to block out the light.

Eventually, Harry responds as loud as he can because he has to, his mouth against the wood of the table, voice cracking like it does sometimes when he lies through his teeth.

“I don’t remember anything either.”

 

***


	2. "Please?"

 

Harry wakes up to the sound of a door slamming. It takes a few disorienting seconds, of him gripping his hair and turning over onto his back on a lumpy futon, to remember where he is. Cream-colored walls covered in scarves, the smell of incense, a pair of diamond earrings on the glass table near his phone.

He relaxes when he sees the earrings.

Their mother bought those diamonds for Gemma when she went on a business trip to Prague a few years back. Over Skype, she told her children that she had presents for them, presents she couldn’t wait for them to “wear for her.” Prized ponies, the Styles children. Gemma glittering in her diamonds, Harry sheathed in Armani suits. Trotted out for the world to see, Anne’s babies who modeled as toddlers in catalogues and magazines.

“They could still be models, you know. Look at them,” Anne would say to anyone who would listen, her entire body dripping in diamonds of her own, patting at her children’s faces at every function they attended as a family. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

And they were. Beautiful, lovely, photogenic. Gemma and Harry, their matching smiles, even when the smiles were plastered on and fake. Or as they got older, when the smiles were fabricated, the result of too many hard drugs, snorted in bathrooms connected to banquet halls, with Rockefeller grandchildren and Mick Jagger’s daughters holding their hands. As always, the children within their circle took care of their own.

Anne called the two of them models all the time. Any time she could, at any opportunity, her fingers dancing across Gemma’s slender shoulders or tapping at Harry’s cheekbones. The Styles siblings, practically Irish twins, could’ve modeled. That’s what their mother always said.

If only Gemma had been taller.

If only Harry hadn’t wanted to keep attending school up in New Hampshire.

If only they didn’t insist on letting Anne down, time and time again, like when Gemma pierced her eyebrow on a silly dare or Harry busted his face up when he fell on the fire escape, drunk.

If only, if only.

It turns out the front door of Gemma’s apartment had been slammed by her roommate Marco and whoever he brought back with him for the evening. Harry, from Gemma’s lofted bedroom, just turns over and tries to fall back asleep. He only gets two days away from school, back in the city he grew up in. And when his sister has to attend class during the day, he spends the extra time sleeping. To bounce back.

“Harry?” Marco calls from the main floor of the Greenwich apartment they pretend their parents don’t pay for, his high-pitched voice carrying up the rickety iron spiral staircase.

“Yeah,” Harry grunts into the pillow.

“Gem says she’s on her way back. And also,” Marco pauses, as if to read a text from his phone, “she’s picking you up a venti latte with an extra shot.”

Harry loves his sister so much, he could cry.

“Thank you,” Harry tries to say louder, feeling incredibly rude for not getting up to at least peer down at him with a grateful smile.

He just finds it difficult to move. After the Jag incident with Zayn, Harry made a decision. He got up from breakfast without a backwards glance at any of the boys, and marched straight to Wallace. In so few words, Harry informed him that he’d be “out of town” for a few days, visiting family. And for Wallace to please take care of the specifics when it came to squaring it away with the school, since students weren’t supposed to leave school grounds without parental consent.

Having Wallace under his thumb still had its perks.

He packed a bag, got in his car, and drove into the city to Gemma’s place. It was a snap, rash decision that Gemma probably saw coming a mile away. Because when he called her, right as he passed Washington Square Park, his voice shaking as he explained how he couldn’t be at school or at home at the moment, he could hear her opening her front door. To watch for his Jag driving up the block, to let him inside.

Later that night, and even though it was a Sunday, they got absolutely obliterated at a new bar in Soho. Gemma introduced Harry to all of her cool, new NYU friends, people from all over the country, even a girl from New Zealand who swore Harry was the prettiest thing she’d ever seen.

They had too many drinks, did and sold too many drugs, and didn’t talk about a single thing that was bothering him. Not about the fact that he’s gay, or the guilt he felt for forcing Zayn to sit next to him in his car after the party, or the anger coursing through him whenever he remembered that Zayn could pretend like it didn’t happen. None of it. Just drugs and booze and dancing. Harry loves that about Gemma, how she never talks about the heavy shit unless he asks her to. _Let’s have fun tonight, sunshine. How about we pretend we’re from the south. Let’s have accents. Tell the bartenders we’re from Georgia, that our daddy’s name is Wally, and we’re ole’ Southern Belles. Georgia Peaches, you and me._

Harry always played along whenever Gemma came up with a game. So they texted Wallace from her phone, with an obnoxious picture with “daddy” captioned across it and called everyone “darlin’” all night. People seemed to absolutely love it. Harry had the entire place eating out of the palm of his hand, as he ignored his phone with texts from only _three_ of his best friends, various regulars at school, and a very confused Maureen.

He must’ve fallen back asleep on the futon Gem had up in her bedroom, because he jerks awake a second time when a coffee cup knocks against his nose.

“Coffee and bagels,” Gem says with a laugh, as he cracks his neck and opens his eyes.

“Lifesaver.”

“As always.”

They sit side by side, their feet dangling over the landing above the living room, to look out the massive floor-to-ceiling window there in Greenwich. Harry quite likes this part of the city, with its wide range of people, just the right amount of grungy. It was far away from their fancy, yet cold brownstone near Central Park that always smelled of harsh cleaning products. Back home, they had a maid cleaning every room of the house almost every day growing up. Harry’s pretty sure his first memory is of himself trying to grab for a Lysol can and his nanny snatching it away.

Gemma’s apartment, this little oasis she’s created for herself away from their parents, not at Columbia because she refused to attend school there, away from F.M. and its reliance on money and structure, feels good. Messy and lived in. An old building with updated stainless-steel appliances and fancy sconces, because try as she might, Gemma is still an upscale brat at heart, just like Harry, sitting there in his wrinkled hundred-dollar t-shirt.

Still, it feels like a home. Harry elbows her as he takes a bite of his bagel, trying to say it without saying it, and she knows.

_Thanks, Gem. I don’t feel as heavy today._

“You can always come here,” she says, elbowing him back.

“I know.”

“Do you feel like talking about it? Whatever made you want to take a break?”

Harry turns so he can look out onto the street. A man passes by, walking his dog. He reminds Harry of someone, but not anyone he can place. Handsome, tall, with a thick beard. Maybe some actor he used to admire on a TV show.

He stares at the muscles of the man’s shoulder blades as he gently tugs the dog’s leash to follow him, his sweater stretching.

Harry shakes his head as Gemma leans into him, her eyes laser focused on his profile. Her baby brother who she can usually figure out quicker than this.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Harry finally answers her, because he knows he’ll have to tell her. He has to tell someone who isn’t Zayn, because even though Zayn was right there and saw the evidence quite literally in Harry’s hand, that doesn’t count. Because Zayn didn’t watch, Zayn didn’t want to talk to Harry about any of it the next morning, and Zayn pretended to forget. Again.

And if Harry hasn’t been able to admit it to himself, maybe he can admit it to Gemma. She’ll know what to say to make him feel… better.

Even lighter.

Gem links their arms together and lays her head on Harry’s shoulder. She doesn’t ask any more questions. And when Marco starts playing some ridiculous house music from his bedroom, probably to drown out the sound of him fucking someone on his noisy mattress, the two of them giggle into their bagels and schmear.

 

***

 

Telling his sister he’s gay feels a lot like telling her he’s dying. That’s the first conclusion he comes to, when they sit side by side the next day and he stares at her like he can’t speak. After he made the decision to do it, to admit it, to finally fucking let it be, he tossed and turned all night, the night before Halloween, trying to find the right way to say it. In the end, he just sat her down at the breakfast table with a shaky _I need to tell you something_ and crossed his fingers, hoping it came to him naturally. Gemma pushed their coffee aside and took her Harry Potter-themed glasses and scarf off. She got herself ready. It’s like when they were younger: when Harry came to her with serious eyes, she knew to be present. To listen. To come down off of whatever high they were on, even if they had a party to attend.

But then after all that build up, Harry can’t say anything. He just stares at her.

Gemma quietly asks over and over, in a calm, measured voice, to _just say it Harry, tell me what’s wrong, what is it, how can I help you?_ But how do you say it? How does anyone say it? How do people put a label on it? On themselves?

 _I’m not a can of soup,_ Harry thinks.

She tries to squeeze his arm, to get him to pay attention. She must think it’s horrible news. Terrible news. The worst news he could possibly break to her. _They found cancer in my brain. I have a lump in the center of my chest. Heart failure. Two weeks to live._

The way Harry stares at Gemma, his eyes welled up, his face a mess, she must think it’s going to ruin their lives. Their little two-person family, the Styles siblings no one can shake or separate. After all this time, after all of the little earthquakes they’ve survived, the universe must have it in for them after all.

“Harry,” Gemma says, gripping his hands tighter. “Please.”

“I don’t… It’s – it’s me.”

“What is you,” she stares harder, trying to understand.

“What I’m trying to tell you. It’s… what I am. It’s me.”

“You…”

Gemma blinks and tries to grasp whatever it is, whatever Harry hasn’t been able to say. The word.

_What three adjectives best describe you?_

_Anxious. Rebellious. And…_

“Gem,” Harry says quietly, finally exhaling the breath he’d been holding. “I’m… I’m gay.”

Harry lets it sit there, hanging. He grips her hands, as he holds the word close.

At first her face doesn’t move, her entire body engaged, turned towards him. Then she blinks a few times, like she’s replaying it in her head. Harry wants to give her a few seconds to really _hear_ it, to absorb the fact that everything she thought she knew about her brother has been flipped on its side. Until it takes a few seconds too long, and Harry worries over what she thinks.

He clears his throat.

“Well, alright,” she finally says, her mouth twitching.

Which is… odd.

“Are you – Gem, are you laughing at me?”

Gemma, while trying to _suppress a laugh_ , holds a hand up to her mouth.

“What? No! I am not laughing, I swear,” she says. With a half-smile.

“Yes you are!” Harry scoffs, moving his chair back to let her go.

“Harry, I’m not laughing. I’m not! I’m not. I just… I thought you were about to tell me you were dying. Or that you like…” she jerks her hand towards the window, “murdered someone. That I had to go help you hide the body in your trunk.”

Harry scoffs a second time. Murder? _Really?_

“No, no, no! Harry. I am _not_ trying to discount your feelings and I don’t want to in any way invalidate your coming out process, I promise,” Gemma nods, crossing her heart, schooling her face to be serious. “Please. Go on. Tell me more. How do you feel.”

But then fast as anything, as he stares at his sister psycho-analyzing and laughing at him at the same time, Harry realizes how dramatic the whole thing has come across. He smacks himself upside the forehead, for likening “coming out” to telling a loved one you’re dying, and suddenly he wants to actually die. And oh god, he’s come out. _I’m out._

_I’ve actually said it out loud, that I’m gay. I really, truly do not like women because I like men. I’m gay._

“Oh god,” he says, face stricken, in shock. “I’m out.”

“Yay!” Gemma says clapping her hands in glee, like he’s just told her he booked them flights to Europe for fun. His fucking sister, excited over the fact that he’s into dudes.

“Oh _god_ , this is so embarrassing,” Harry grimaces, horrified, getting up to move to the small living room.

“Don’t be embarrassed! This is exciting! You like boys!” She follows after him, bouncing around him like a fucking rabbit.

“Stop clapping! You don’t even seem surprised!”

She rolls her eyes at him.

“The Kinsey Scale is a real thing, Harry,” Gemma says, her hands on her hips, incensed. “I would never assume anyone’s sexuality. But I also wouldn’t immediately put you into the ‘straight boy’ box just because I’ve only seen you kiss girls. That’s not fair either.”

Harry’s head has started to hurt, so he presses at his temples and paces around the compact space. Marco is a financing student, so he has way too many books and a graphing calculator in a neat stack on the table that cost about as much as their rent. Harry has to watch his limbs, otherwise he’ll knock it all over.

“Come on,” Gemma pulls at his arms, to look at her again. “Did I ruin it? Did you need to say more? Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Gemma. I’m sure that I’m not mad at you,” Harry says, slightly mad. “This is all new to me, okay? I’m still… processing. And you’re the first person I’ve told, not even the boys, and I haven’t even… _said_ it before now. I can’t… I’m not going to _scream_ it to the world. So if you want me to like, start celebrating or dance around the room to disco drag music, then you can fuck right off.”

Gemma has to suck her lips into her mouth, to keep herself from laughing even harder than before.

Harry catches sight of her, at his stupid, ridiculous, thinks-she’s-already-a-psychologist big sister, and he has to bite his own mouth. It is new. And he is still processing. But… he’s done it. It’s over. He’s jumped the hurdle and actually accepted his feelings as valid, instead of shoving them away. He’s just come out. Harry Styles, never shy or awkward in his affection for anyone, least of all boys, has just admitted to wanting to have sex with them for the rest of his life, at least to one person. It’s a start.

And the thought of him dancing to disco music like a big, gay queen, in this tiny living room surrounded by the pretentious art Gemma and Marco acquired at pretentious art galleries, at that very moment, is pretty fucking funny.

_I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay._

So Harry thinks _fuck it,_ and strikes a pose. He then starts humming “Stayin’ Alive” to make Gemma smile. Which she does. With a slight tear in her eye, which she’d never admit to, because they’re both fucking saps and they both can barely admit how they really feel.

Eventually he reaches over and grabs her in a hug as they laugh about the entire exchange.

“I’m proud of you,” she mumbles.

“Thanks.”

“Even though it’s _not_ a big deal,” she semi-scolds him, “it still… sort of is. To be brave and to say it. To be who you are.”

Harry holds her tighter, for understanding that. He’s so fucking happy that he told her first. No one could’ve known before Gemma. She’s the only person who knows him from top to bottom, inside and out.

“And I’m glad you told me. If you’re not ready to tell anyone else, I’m glad you at least told me. No secrets, right?”

“With us? Never,” Harry says.

“Good. I hate when you keep things from me,” Gemma says, smacking at his back.

Harry’s mind flashes to Zayn Malik, one of his best friends, the boy he can’t stop staring at. The boy who opened up the little compartment in his chest that brought the whole thing about. _I’m gay. It’s not a nameless “thing” anymore. I’m gay and I need to get used to thinking it. My thoughts need to create my world, for real this time._

Harry can’t help but think about Zayn then, miles away in his dorm room, a smile on his face as he pretends like everything is fine. Thinking about how he’s _not_ gay. _Not_ into boys. Zayn, with that face of his, a tattoo gun in his hand and a girl’s number in his phone. Pretending to forget. The person Harry sat next to in his car while touching himself. The one Harry would say it out loud for, to someone besides Gemma, if Zayn asked him to.

So along with not telling anyone else about who he is yet, Harry also knows he can’t tell Gemma about Zayn. Not about what they did, not what Harry wants to do. Not now, not yet. And he’s not sure why. So he hugs her tighter, squeezes her until she’s punching him in the kidneys to let her go, laughing.

“No secrets,” Harry laughs along, lying.

She doesn’t see his face, so she doesn’t notice.

 

***

 

Fall in the northeast had sprouted as beautifully as ever, before Harry could even fully appreciate it. It’s like one day he looks up and campus is nothing but a sea of red and orange trees, which the girls always take as a sign to start lighting contraband candles in their dorms that smell of spices and spiked cider. The feel of fall seeps into everything, under all of their doors, into their fresh laundry, wrapped up into their scarves and gloves. Harry looks out at the Jag when he gets back to school, as he passes it from various windows in various school buildings that week, and sees it covered in fallen leaves, collecting dust, dormant. He misses it. He misses… something.

The air feels different. He feels different.

It’s a season of change.

Harry can’t help but notice the shift in the air. He spends most of his time catching himself looking at his classmates in a new light. He feels differently now, about his peers. In the library, in the showers, at the back of every classroom he can’t pay attention in, his pen between his teeth. Eyes in slits. Assessing them.

He feels like a scientist in some weird case study, like Foster Montgomery and its students are nothing more than an experiment he’s been assigned. Gather information, form a hypothesis, test the hypothesis and collect data in a reproducible manner, analyze the data, interpret the data, and draw a conclusion.

_If there are 290 students in this school, how many of us are gay? And of the gay students, how many are boys? If I stare at certain boys hard enough, and they stare back, is that concrete evidence? How many times will it take for me to dodge Mo and her questions before she realizes I like dick after all? If Sebastian Vaughn buys weed once a week, but his roommate Royce doesn’t smoke, how much is he smoking on his own to need that much? Is it just an excuse for Sebastian to get me in his room late every Tuesday night? If I tried to kiss him, just to see how it feels, to what extent would he beat the shit out of me?_

Harry should honestly take notes to keep it all straight. The incessant thinking-in-circles has started to give him migraines.

“What’s going on with you?” Louis says to him one night, as the five of them study together in the hushed library. It’s deathly quiet, close to ten, right before the R.A.s make their rounds to kick everyone out before curfew.

Harry, who had been staring intently at a few junior baseball players lounging in recliners near the stacks with Mo sitting on one of their laps, finally looks over at Louis. He had been distracted. Mo had effectively given up on Harry, once she tried to engage him in flirty conversation after American Government one day. But when he could only give half-hearted responses and only answered texts regarding the drugs he sold her, she left him alone.

Louis pokes at the line between his eyes, where he says Harry most shows his “serial killer frown”, and makes a face.

“What?” Harry shakes his head, to pay attention. He’s been thinking about dicks a lot lately too, and the baseball players have a tendency to wear their gym shorts all year round. Which gives a good view, all things considered.

“I asked what is going on in there,” Louis says, poking his forehead with the pen a second time.

“Nothing.”

“Liar. Since when do you not tell me stuff?”

Zayn, sitting next to Louis, shifts in his chair. But he doesn’t look up from his laptop. As always, ever since Harry got back from New York, they don’t make eye contact. And they don’t speak.

Louis frowns at that, at Harry not telling him something. He settles back in his chair in a huff, annoyed at being left out. Harry still hasn’t said anything to anyone, so he tries to use his eyes to tell Lou, his best friend, _I’m fine, it’s all good, please don’t make this weird._

But then of course Niall can’t let it fucking go either.

“You have been acting off,” he mutters, shifting in his chair as he starts putting his stuff into his bag. “Ever since you got back from Gemma’s.”

“True,” Liam agrees.

“No I haven’t,” Harry lies, looking down at his bag to busy himself. “I just… I don’t know, missed her and then had to come back here, and it’s… whatever.”

“Don’t you agree?” Louis says quietly to Zayn.

Harry looks up, right as Louis elbows Zayn, to pay attention and join in the conversation. Zayn only shrugs and pushes his glasses up his nose, still looking at his laptop screen. It’s clearly not the reaction Louis wanted from his roommate.

“ _You’ve_ been acting fucking weird too,” Louis says angrily, shoving Zayn’s arm. “You’re hiding something from me too. Jesus, what the fuck is up with you two these days? What happened?”

It hits a nerve.

Zayn whips his head around and stares daggers at Louis.

“Nothing,” he hisses loudly, voice cutting through the air. “Leave it the fuck alone, Lou.”

The four of them, not used to Zayn raising his voice at all, let alone at Louis, still completely. The entire library of students, all packing it in for the night, glance over at the noise coming from their table. The only movement from Zayn comes from the clench of his jaw.

Harry could be nice about it, but he feels exhaustion creeping in. His eyes begin to prickle and all he wants is to fall face first into his bed, to get really comfortable. If Jack wasn’t around, if only he lived alone, maybe he could watch some porn, _gay porn_ _because I’m gay now_ , and go to sleep naked, just because.

But the likelihood of getting any alone time is slim to none. And anyways, Harry doesn’t feel very nice. Not since Zayn won’t meet his eyes and everyone thinks _Harry_ is the one acting strange. Not nice at all, not tonight.

“Yeah, Lou,” Harry says harshly, tucking his pen behind his ear and grabbing his bag. He stands up. “Nothing happened. And the only one acting weird around here is me.”

It works. Because all four boys look up at him from their chairs with unblinking, confused expressions.

“Right, Zayn?” Harry finishes with a blank stare.

And then he leaves the library, his boots scuffing at the floor as noisily as possible, because even though the signs say to _Please Be Quiet!_ Harry’s never been good at doing what he’s told.

 

***

 

A sophomore transfer, Leah Something, had been asking around about Harry. Apparently she saw the handshakes and awkward hugs between the handsome, gangly senior and almost all of the other students, in between classes in the halls, out on the grounds, even during breakfast in the dining hall. She wondered about the slight of hand Harry had perfected, so no one on the faculty but Wallace knew what he was up to. She saw the girls kissing his cheeks, the guys thanking him profusely, the way he always seemed to be counting money.

She wanted to know more. What all he had, if his prices were fair, why he was the only dealer on campus. The answers she found must’ve been satisfactory. She wanted what Harry was selling.

Harry kicks back on the cool metal bleachers beside the indoor pool and flicks his lighter, the end of the joint between his lips illuminating the hollows of his face. Leah watches him, leaning on one slender elbow, her dark hair covering one eye.

He’s taken to hanging out in the darkened cavernous Olympic-sized aquatic center donated by a Kennedy or something, on week nights when he can’t have people coming to his room as Jack studies for midterms. Louis’s room wasn’t an option anymore, because that meant being around Zayn. And Niall and Liam would wonder why he was being so quiet. They’d ask too many questions Harry doesn’t have answers to.

As Harry feared, without Louis as a roommate, it’s a lonely road as F.M.’s only Styles. He tells himself it’s not too bad, doing it alone. He’s made more friends, actually. Or like, friendly acquaintances, maybe. People who stay to chat sometimes, when they’re not rushing to go write a paper or take whatever he sold them to fall asleep. Underclassmen he probably wouldn’t chat with otherwise. It’s not too bad. Not all the time. The pool is nice, at night. The chlorine covers up the smell of the smoke. And once he’s stoned out of his mind, the lights in the water make pretty sick shadows on the tall ceiling stories above his head.

After they made the exchange, when Leah had her dime bag and Harry had his cash, he expected her to leave. But when she saw him pull out a joint for himself, to kick back in his grey hoodie and running pants, she stayed. And that was nice, so Harry wanted her to feel welcome.

“Where are you from?” he mumbles around the joint, inhaling, handing it over.

“Providence,” Leah says with a sad smile.

“Yeah? You miss it?”

She shrugs, thinking.

“I miss having like… set hours, you know?”

Harry cocks his head, confused.

“Here, it feels like a TV show or something. Like it’s not real life. It’s why we need _this_ ,” she gestures to the weed forlornly. “Away at school, away from home, it’s like nothing but bullshit classes and stress and emotional _shit_ , like all the time, without any sort of _break_ , you know?”

Harry never really felt at home anywhere else, so no, he doesn’t know.

“No,” he shakes his head, honestly.

She frowns, like she feels bad for him. Usually Harry hates that, especially when it comes to strangers, but this new girl seems genuine enough. He shrugs.

She takes another hit.

“I miss… I don’t know, I miss having school during the day. Just school. Even if it was hard and I had an ex stalking me through the halls, it was… school. And once it was over, I could go home to my parents, to a meal my dad made me, to my mom still tucking me and my sister in.”

Leah doesn’t seem embarrassed by the admission, which Harry smiles at. What a world she must have. Dad making pork chops and mom kissing her kids goodnight. _That_ feels like the TV show.

“I miss having a break from the drama,” she says. “A clock on the wall, the bell for ‘school’s out,’ and we’re done. Back to real life.”

Harry frowns as he takes the joint back. He hits it a little harder than he should, inhaling too quickly. He coughs into his fist a few times, as Leah claps him on the back to catch his breath.

If he liked girls, Harry thinks he might like her.

When he gets his head back on straight and goes to hand the joint back to her, she shakes her head and smiles.

“I’m good,” she sighs, standing up to grab her stuff. “I’m gonna go call home, actually. And I have work study tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, okay,” he nods.

And then fast as anything, she’s gone. Harry’s left there on the short bleachers next to the massive pool that could fit their entire student body quite comfortably, and suddenly it feels like the entire building could swallow him up whole and no one would know. If he fell into the shallow end and accidentally hit his head on the bottom, no one would find him until second period the next morning. Freshmen Gym.

_Gay Harry Styles, who never even had the chance to touch a boy, dead in that unnaturally colored chemical water. That poor kid. His mother said he could model and his dad gave him a $97,000 car. But they didn’t really know anything about him. Poor little rich boy. His friends say he was nice, but Zayn Malik wouldn’t look him in the eye, in the end. That’s how they found him, Harry Styles. Floating in a pool, alone. What a way to go…_

“Harry?”

The sound echoes around him, snapping him out of it. Harry drops the cashed joint in surprise, but stomps at it anyways. He’s too high, too dizzy, to see straight. But he knows it’s Zayn.

Zayn finally steps into view, coming from where Leah left. He timidly climbs up the few bleachers to sit beside Harry, in his black hoodie and that green jacket he wears so well, the one Harry saw on a runway last spring.

“Hey,” Harry finally says.

“Hey,” Zayn mumbles, eyes darting from Harry’s face, to the pool, to the ceiling, to the discarded joint next to Harry’s shoe.

They haven’t spoken really, not since that night. Harry wishes he could say that he’s caught Zayn looking at him every so often in Sociology, or that even when they’re not speaking, Zayn still laughed at his jokes in between classes, or even just… sat next to him at dinner. But Harry had been trying not to notice Zayn at all. He had been trying his best not to look. So he wouldn’t know.

He’s about to say something, finally, to bring up what happened, when Zayn speaks first.

“Can I… get a quarter?”

Harry blinks, his eyes focused on the lights underneath the surface of the water in front of them.

“Sure,” he eventually says, voice harsh.

That ruffles Zayn slightly, Harry’s tone. Harry can be a brat, they all know it. He can be mean and vindictive, a fucking dick when he wants to be. But he doesn’t do it to his friends, the same way that Zayn never raises his voice. So when he does, when Harry spits venom like a viper, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Harry grabs for the baggy in his laptop case and shoves it into Zayn’s hand.

“Let me know if you’d like me to roll some of it for you,” Harry says viciously, wiping at his nose. “See how it tastes before you buy. By all means, test my product.”

“Fuck off, Harry,” Zayn says quietly.

“Hey, I’m a good business man. It’s only fair.”

“Shut up,” Zayn says, turning to him. “Stop acting like this.”

“Like what?” Harry spits again, moving away from Zayn entirely. “We’re not exactly friends these days. Right? We haven’t spoken in over a fucking _week_ , Zayn. So why shouldn’t I treat you like any other customer?”

Even after he shifts his body away, they’re still sitting too close. Like they used to do in the Jag, or when Zayn was tattooing someone and he’d let Harry watch. Zayn never let the other boys watch over his shoulder, be “annoying” and hover, but he’d let Harry, if Harry asked nicely. It’s like in the woods when they watched Mackenzie and Anthony, when their wrists touched, when Harry could feel Zayn’s body heat and hear his breathing. Harry moves away because he hates being close to Zayn now, after Zayn pretended to forget.

Harry almost spits that at him too, when Zayn looks down at his shoes. _Remember the woods, remember what we saw and how it felt and what I did in the Jag when you were right there? Remember how you left Amy to come find me and you keep finding me and we keep ending up like this? Look at me!_

But Zayn exhales and steels himself.

“I didn’t forget,” he says quietly to his feet, his voice measured. Like he had tried to practice this. “I didn’t. I don’t – I don’t know what that was, whatever the _fuck_ that was, what happened in your car. When you… You know. But it’s… _easier_ … to say I forgot, okay?”

He looks at Harry. Finally.

And Harry looks back, mouth agape.

“You…”

“No, don’t… just don’t.”

“But – ”

Zayn shakes his head, cutting Harry off, and moves even farther away than Harry had. Three people could sit in between them on the bleachers. If this was a swim meet or a water polo match, if they were cheering on their friends in April and May, they could have Louis, Liam, and Niall right there in between them, waving around their F.M. t-shirts obnoxiously. Screaming for school pride. Five boys, five best friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Zayn says in a rush. “I don’t want to… _say_ it. I _can’t_ say it. We’ll… we’ll be cool, and we can still hang out. All of us. Because I can’t lose anyone else, and we can’t let it get weird or whatever. Just… can we _please_ let it be forgotten? Please?”

Harry stares at Zayn: his wide eyes, the way his jaw jumps with nerves, the hunch to his shoulders. Begging. Pleading. Maybe it’s because his weed is good shit, but he stares at Zayn and sees himself not even that fucking long ago. Telling himself not to say it, not to think it, that it’s not true, it’s not him, _that’s not me, I’m not gay, stop thinking about it, my thoughts create my world._ Talking to girls, fucking girls, swearing it’s only girls.

And suddenly Harry isn’t mad anymore.

Harry remembers that the only person he’s told is his sister, because he doesn’t know how to tell anyone else. He doesn’t know how to tell the world, let alone the little world-stuck-in-a-snow-globe known as Foster Montgomery, where your private business somehow feels like it _belongs_ to everyone else. Harry isn’t ashamed, but he can’t let it belong to them yet.

And whatever Zayn is, whatever Zayn feels, maybe he’s not ready to tell the world either. They’re _both_ not there yet.

Zayn can’t say it. He still needs to be the person with a girl in his phone, for now. And Harry needs to get that.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, pulling at his hoodie strings so it tightens slightly around his face, his eye twitching. “Yeah. We can forget. We don’t have to say it.”

“Thank you,” Zayn sighs with relief. He stops wringing his hands, like he does when he’s nervous. The tension he held in his shoulder blades has started to ease. He even closes his eyes for a few seconds, like he’d enjoy nothing more than to kick back and take a nap right there on the bleachers.

Watching Zayn in that moment reminds Harry of one Family Weekend freshmen year. F.M. has designated weekends every few weeks where some students choose to stay on campus so their parents can fly in from out of state to visit, whereas other students go home to their families. The five boys had gotten pretty close over the school year, so by the time it hit April, Zayn as the lone non-boarder invited them to his family’s home to stay for the weekend instead. Harry jumped at the chance to not go back to the city and have to spend it alone, or worse, shopping with his mother.

Harry absolutely loved the Malik Estate in the nearby gated neighborhood, with its sprawling lawn and lush gardens. They finally got to see Zayn outside of school, in his element. Fun Zayn. He had his own guesthouse all to himself, with a huge bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and game room out by the pool and tennis court.

Zayn looked peaceful there, like now. At ease, surrounded by his stuff. He had his sisters, his dad with his stern, imposing gaze, his mom with her pretty smile, and all their animals. Harry never had pets growing up. One of Harry’s favorite pictures is from that weekend: it’s of himself with Zayn’s lizard Arnie on his shoulder, two cats in his arms, and a dog trying to jump up into his lap.

It was also the first weekend they all tripped their balls off together, by taking Gemma’s ecstasy. It was cut with something _weird_ , Harry swears it. They still talk about the “cow” out in the field behind Zayn’s little oasis filled with spray paint and too much cologne, how it was probably a murderer. They offered Liam up as bait and he still hasn’t forgiven them.

Harry has to pinch himself on the arm, to snap out of it. They’re not idiot freshmen anymore, in Zayn’s little house with its own fridge full of beer.

_I’m gay. And you’re probably gay. Or at least, not totally straight. We could figure this out together. But we can’t talk about it._

“Alright well, thanks,” Zayn finally mutters, shifting to move down off the bleachers to head back towards the dorms. “For the… weed.”

He blinks.

_And for not making me say it._

“Sure thing,” Harry nods.

But before Zayn walks away, and before Harry loses his nerve, he clears his throat.

_If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t…_

He’s still high. That’s all. That’s why he offers it.

“I won’t say anything, I swear. But I’ll… be in the Jag sometimes. After lights out. No one around, no one to see. If you… want to stop by. Like, to just… chill.”

Zayn stops on his way down the bleachers, his Nikes squeaking slightly. But he doesn’t turn around.

“So yeah, that’s where I’ll be,” Harry finishes, pulling his hoodie strings so hard they almost snap off.

It’s a clear offer, a proposition for more, a present with a bow on top. Harry’s not sure what all he would offer Zayn in the Jag. But he would like to find out.

He expects Zayn to refuse it, to shove back that Harry is a fucking idiot. To fight or yell. _What did I just say, Harry? What have I been saying all along?_

But he doesn’t. He nears the glass doors and doesn’t turn around or acknowledge that he heard Harry at all. He just leaves as fast as he can, not looking back.

So Harry pulls at his trusty hoodie strings, the fabric completely enveloping his face, to hide his beet-red embarrassment there in the empty pool house.

 

***

 

Harry takes a book to the Jag three nights in a row. He sneaks out past Wallace, after Jack has passed out from exhaustion, to settle in the front seat of his tiny car. He flips through the pages of a mystery novel, something he doesn’t need to read for class, and he stays hidden. Late into the night.

He waits, just him, his book, and a joint. Three nights in a row, for Zayn to show up. It’s their place and Harry made the offer the only way he knew how.

But Zayn doesn’t come.

 

***

 

“What do you think?” Louis says, looking down at his right forearm, turning it just so to look at his brand new ink.

It’s just the two of them hanging out, side-by-side on Louis’s bed, bored out of their minds on the Friday evening before the year’s first Parents Weekend. Liam was off finishing up a session with his new tutor, Niall was in his room planning out the travel schedule of his dad and brother coming into town the next morning, and Zayn was… wherever he was. Harry didn’t ask when he arrived, where Zayn was, if he would be joining them before dinner later. Harry doesn’t like to bring up Zayn if he can help it.

It’s been a few days since he gave up on meeting Zayn in the Jag late at night, to… he’s not sure what he wanted to do, exactly. Or what he expected. Maybe Zayn doesn’t want to be alone with Harry anymore. Even after the pool house conversation, things have still felt weird and they still haven’t talked. The energy around them doesn’t feel as angry or charged, but it’s not exactly pleasant. They’re lucky the other boys haven’t called them on it again.

But Harry can’t think about it anymore. He can’t figure Zayn out. So he focuses on his numbers. He does the only thing he’s good at, and sells to his friends.

“I think you’re a fucking idiot,” Harry answers honestly, scrolling through his phone. If this had been before, when he watched Zayn tattoo so many of their friends and classmates, Harry would’ve told Louis as the needle started up, that the tattoo idea was moronic. If the incident in the Jag had never happened, Harry would’ve been there to offer his two cents, a blunt between in his fingers, a smile on his face. Without a care in the world. Nothing changed, nothing different.

But no one asked. And Zayn hadn’t invited him to watch.

“Just because I didn’t get some pretentious tattoo for my first one, doesn’t mean this can’t be meaningful,” Louis scoffs.

Harry blinks at him. “It’s a little stick figure man. Riding a skateboard,” he deadpans.

“You’re no fun.”

“No, you’re just an idiot.”

Louis pinches Harry’s nipple as hard as humanly possible, which causes Harry to yelp and flail halfway across the bed.

“Zayn thought it was funny,” Louis says, once he stops laughing.

Harry doesn’t respond to that, and refocuses more intently on his phone and the texts he hasn’t answered yet. Kash and Cody both texted him about needing to meet up later. Customers and their needs always come first. It keeps them coming back, if they feel like a priority. That’s what Gemma always used to say.

As he’s typing out the second message, Louis makes a sound. Louis hates feeling ignored.

Harry rolls his eyes, giving up. He shoves his phone away.

“It’s very _you_ ,” he nods. “Very Louis Tomlinson of you, to have a shitty stick figure branded into your skin forever.”

Louis smiles. Like a fucking idiot.                             

“What do you want for yours?”

“My what?”

“Your first tattoo,” Louis says impatiently, kicking Harry in the ribs. “Zayn wants to give us all one.”

“Good luck getting Niall under the gun,” Harry snorts. “And I don’t know… I don’t know if I want one anymore.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe I want to wait,” Harry shrugs, lying his ass off.

“No, you just don’t want Zayn to do it. Which I still don’t understand. You two were hanging out constantly and now won’t even talk.”

Harry shrugs again and tries to change the subject.

“Excited to see everyone? Is Jay bringing all of the kids?” Harry remembers how the last Parents Weekend, Louis didn’t get to see his youngest siblings, the twin toddlers. The almost six hour drive up from New Jersey on a Saturday morning, with that many kids, sounded like a fucking nightmare. So Harry didn’t blame Louis’s mom one bit.

“I’m actually going to them,” Louis nods, reaching for his own phone. “Thought I’d go back and have a nice weekend by the water, you know?”

Harry narrows his eyes. Louis hates going back to Mountain Lakes during the school year, unless it’s over a holiday or Christmas break to celebrate his birthday. He hates long car rides. His family specifically makes the trek up to see him at school, so he can’t complain for days on end. _And_ they can all use it as an excuse to spend a shit ton of money on a five-star hotel, charged to his father’s company credit card.

“Why?” Harry questions him.

“I don’t know,” Louis lies again, not looking at Harry. “Zayn and I both need a break.”

“ _Zayn’s_ going with you?” Harry says, somehow even more shocked. “Since when does Zayn go to Jersey with you? Doesn’t his dad want him home for the weekend? Since he’s been away from his family for so long?”

“Guess not,” Louis says, his cheeks red. He bounces up from the bed, smoothing the slightly raised skin of his new tattoo. “But whatever, that’s tomorrow.”

Harry frowns. If Louis is hiding something from him, just because he’s so clearly hiding something from _Louis_ , well that’s just not fair. An eye for an eye is bullshit. And like his preschool teacher used to say, “Secrets don’t make friends, and friends don’t make secrets.”

Louis then starts picking through some of his dirty t-shirts on the floor, to toss them over towards the hamper in his closet. Which is another indication that he doesn’t want to look Harry in the eye, since Louis hasn’t touched his own laundry in about three years.

Something is off.

“Louis.”

“Tonight is what we need to focus on,” Louis barrels on, ignoring the questioning tone in Harry’s voice. “Since you’ve been so _keen_ on the pool lately, I talked to some of the guys down the hall and they think we can do it. It’s far enough away from the faculty quarters. And if we don’t play music too loudly, we shouldn’t get caught.”

“Okay…”

“We want to get fucked up,” Louis says excitedly. “It was Zayn’s idea. He – he said he wants to get drunk. And I’m sure Li will be fucking _over_ this tutor session. And we can give him some blow, see Liam The Joker come out to play.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry nods, trying to shake the weird feeling that has settled around them. Coked up Liam _is_ fun. But Harry still feels prickly under the collar of his shirt when he sees Louis typing quickly on his phone.

“And bring your bong,” Louis finishes.

He then leans down and twists both of Harry’s nipples, until Harry is crying out in pain.

 

***

 

With so many parents, step-parents, siblings, and step-siblings-twice-removed due to be on campus bright and early the next morning, it’s no wonder the F.M. seniors all felt the need to go crazy.

Harry leans back on his elbows on the lowest diving board above the pool and watches his classmates make fools of themselves, stumbling and dancing around him. It’s probably perverse to still get satisfaction out of seeing his friends fucked up, blazed, high, numb… and know it’s entirely because of him. _I did that. I helped you. I made you feel better._ But he can’t help it, as people thank him all night, wink from afar, kiss his face. They’re always so grateful, their little group. And Harry loves to provide. He loves to be apart of it.

Throughout the night, Harry watches Zayn get more and more drunk. It started with tequila back in Niall and Liam’s room, the five of them throwing back shots and licking salt off the backs of their hands. After Niall told them all about the exciting weekend he had planned with his family, they toasted their normal “fifty-six thousand and counting,” as well as a few other stupid sayings from Niall about living life to the fullest.

But Zayn didn’t want to talk about the weekend after that. With his face set in a steady Malik Enterprises expression, his eyes already glazed over, he said quietly, “just tonight, only tonight, let’s do this.” He then quickly schooled his face back into the silly Malik they know and love, and giggled into Liam’s neck. No one seemed to notice, but Harry did.

As soon as Zayn started calling for them to take more shots, with his cup of “to-kill-ya” held high, they really should’ve known it was bound to go downhill from there.

Zayn Malik and Gran Patron Silver do not a happy union make.

By the time they went to join the rest of their class down in the pool house, Zayn had to be carried on Liam’s back because his tripping feet made too much noise on the quiet grounds.

Liam, sweating and completely coked out, hissed something like, _if Mr. Peralta catches us in the exact same fucking position as he did this time last year, and my dad has to pay for a new fucking soccer field, I’ll murder all of you._

Niall quite literally kicked him in the ass to move faster, as Louis loudly stated that it wouldn’t matter because “all dads are pricks anyways.”

Harry couldn’t disagree with that, seeing as how his parents didn’t even remember it was Parents Weekend until the day before last, when he received a confirmation in his email from the car company. Five minutes later came a short text from Anne. _I will be there around noon, if traffic is on my side. Please don’t wear your hair the way I hate. See you soon, darling. Oh and Dad can’t make it. He apologizes and says he has a surprise for you._

Des has never surprised his children. Surprises and heartfelt gifts take effort and insider knowledge into what a person might enjoy. So Harry knows it’s nothing but a check, some money to tide him over so he can’t later complain to a therapist that Des never cared.

_All dads really are pricks._

Zayn lights up the entire pool house with his smile, the further and further he pushes himself. It’s a side of Zayn none of them see very often, the kid who never lived on campus or attended parties: uninhibited, wild, singing along to every song on Stefan’s party mix. He has a gorgeous voice, everyone always says so. Liam, who has gotten more and more amped from the coke, tells everyone to listen to Zayn sing. _Listen!_

Even when he’s embarrassed and feeling shy, Zayn can sing. When he’s trying to distract himself, he can sing at the top of his lungs. He smiles, belts out part of a Rihanna song and awkwardly moves his ridiculously long arms, as the whole party claps for him. But Harry sees it for what it is. It’s Zayn doing that thing Harry does so well.

_Look at me! I’m okay, see! Look at how okay I am! If I’m telling you I’m fine, then I’m fine! Everyone look at me, I’m the center of attention! And the center of attention can’t be anything other than a burning star!_

If Zayn and Harry were still friends, if they still made eye contact from across crowded rooms, Harry’s sure Zayn would’ve smiled and mouthed it.

_Did you see, H? Did you hear? Good, yeah?_

And without missing a beat, Harry would’ve frowned.

_Are you okay? Do you wanna go talk?_

But they don’t look at each other because they aren’t really friends anymore. Something made Zayn feel off-center, so he pushed himself off a cliff around that pool, with a bottle of tequila between his palms.

Harry wants so badly to ask why, but he doesn’t.

Instead he sips his final beer of the night when he sees Amy make her move. After some rousing drinking game involving a deck of cards, she starts dancing around with her friends, playing with her hair as she bounces her ass from side to side. Girls love that move, don’t they. And it always works because a few of the other guys watch her and her friends, even though Amy keeps looking over at Zayn. She wants him to watch her, to pay attention, so that she can go grab his hand and sit on his lap.

But she doesn’t realize how far gone Zayn is. Harry recognizes, because he knows Zayn pretty damn well now, that Amy is the last thing Zayn needs tonight. If only Zayn would look over at him. If only they were still friends, or whatever they had started to become. Harry would be able to send the message. _Look at me_. _I could take care of you too. Take you to your bed. You always take my boots off. Let me take off yours. I could make you feel better. I make everyone feel better. I could kiss you goodnight. If you’d let me._

But Zayn still won’t look.

So Harry sets his empty beer down on the end of the diving board and shifts his way off it, careful of touching the water with the tips of his boots. He makes his way around the party and says his goodbyes. It’s not even midnight yet, which takes everyone by surprise. Since when does Harry Styles leave a party early? When Louis tries to ask, his speech entirely too slurred to make sense, Harry just pats at the curve of his ass and tells him to be good. _Be safe._

By the time he leaves the pool house, his eyes down at his shoes, another song has started up. And they’ve all forgotten about him.

Harry makes his way back towards the dorms by taking the long, scenic route, slightly tipsy. He pulls at his black button up, as the wind picks up and sends his hair flying. It’s getting cold. Winter is coming and all that shit.

In the parking lot, he loops his way over towards the Jag. Check up on it, maybe. Sit in the front seat and sulk, with a Journey song drifting from his iPhone. Think about all the choices that have brought him to this place, now, as someone so disconnected from the people around him. Harry Styles creates their little bubble, the drug-induced haze, and yet he can’t partake in it. Not tonight, not when Zayn seemed so… far away.

He turns down a row of cars, expecting to see his little black Roadster at the end, front end glistening in the moonlight.

Instead he sees Zayn. Leaning back on the short hood of his car, looking up at the sky, in his good jeans and the jacket with the hood.

“Zayn?” Harry says incredulously, running the last few steps. “What are you doing? Are you okay?”

Zayn’s head rolls onto his shoulder, slowly and out of sorts, to look at Harry. Finally. Their eyes lock. Zayn exhales a breath like he’s relieved, falling back onto the car entirely. His head _thunks_ on the windshield quite loudly, which elicits a breathy laugh from his chest.

“M’fine, Haz,” he says, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve.

Harry almost says _you’re drunker than I’ve ever seen you, you were singing before, you’re upset._

But he settles on, “Why’d you leave the party?”

“Why’d _you?”_ Zayn counters.

Harry merely shrugs as he steps closer. Zayn has some dirt on his knees. He clearly fell as he left the pool house alone and made his way to the parking lot. It must’ve been as Harry said his goodbyes, after they spent all night, days, weeks, _years_ , not noticing each other.

His face must give away all his thoughts, because Zayn scoffs right at him.

“You keep watching me,” Zayn says, his drunken thoughts spilling out. “Tonight. Every night. All the fucking time. I see you watching me, and I…”

Harry frowns at that.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, caught.

“No, it’s… It’s fine,” Zayn slurs with a resigned sigh.

Harry reaches for him then, as he starts to slide down and off the hood of the Jag. Harry doesn’t want him to fall. They finally touch, after nothing for so long, when Zayn steadies himself using Harry’s arm.

They should go back to their rooms. Harry knows it. But as Zayn sways in front of him and they look at each other again, it’s hard to move. All Harry can think about, in that moment, is getting Zayn in his car. Doing it again.

Zayn blinks slowly, like he could fall asleep standing up. Like one of the horses down in the stables.

His grip tightens for a moment on Harry’s arm as he blinks a few more times, perhaps working through something in his head. A math problem, maybe. Or conjugating French verbs. Harry stares at the movement of his eyelashes, sure that if Zayn doesn’t move soon, they’ll freeze to death right there next to his car. Staring.

And then before Harry can even let out the breath he had been holding, Zayn removes his hand, coming to a decision, so that he can move towards the passenger door. Harry watches, stunned, as Zayn drunkenly propels himself back into the Jag ass-first, right there in the passenger seat.

In no time at all, Harry follows. He gets the driver’s side door open and practically falls into the seat. His hands fumble on the steering wheel, even though he wouldn’t dare to drive it. He just waits, his thoughts becoming so jumbled in his head, as Zayn huffs a breath to squirm and get more comfortable.

_Are we just going to sit here? I don’t have my book. You don’t have your sketches. This isn’t… this was our place but it got ruined. I ruined it. And we can’t talk about it. I’m gay and you’re probably gay and we’re back in the Jag._

_Fuck_. He hits the steering wheel with his palm. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Harry is pulled out of it, when Zayn touches him again. His head snaps up and he stares, dumbfounded. Zayn gives him a smile. Finally. Harry’s breath catches in his throat as Zayn’s left hand squeezes at the back of his neck tenderly. Like they’re friends again, or whatever they are. Two drunk seniors in high school, on the cusp of the rest of their lives, sitting alone in a dark, deserted parking lot.

He can’t help it. As Zayn gently scratches at the base of his skull, his fingers in Harry’s curls, Harry gets so hard, so fast, it almost hurts.

And Zayn must know. Because his hand stills, he stops breathing, he doesn’t even blink. He moves his hand back to his lap, right as Harry bites his lip.

“Zayn,” he tries to say, to acknowledge what he’s about to do.

Again.

_If you don’t tell me to stop, I won’t._

Zayn just… nods.

 _Jesus Christ_ , Zayn nods as he bites his lip, before closing his eyes. He leans his head back on the headrest and settles. Like he could fall asleep again, this time sitting upright, with his shoes on and everything.

But he doesn’t fall asleep. Harry sees him curl his hands into fists in his lap, covering his own _erection_.

 _Holy fucking shit._ Motherfucker, he has to _hide_ it. It’s too much. _You’re hard, I can see it._ The blood rushes in Harry’s veins and he swears it almost makes a sound. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Harry knows what to do.

For the second time, in a frantic hurry, Harry undoes his belt. He slips a hand under his Calvin Klein briefs, to expose himself in all his glory. He grips his cock and balls in both hands, jerks off in a steady rhythm, makes it fast and messy.

He doesn’t look down at his hand this time. He doesn’t look at anything other than Zayn Malik’s perfect profile. The slope of his nose, the pucker of his bottom lip, the way his eyebrows are all at once wild and coifed.

Zayn listens, he keeps engaged the whole time. He feels Harry’s eyes on him, Harry knows it. But he can’t look yet, just like how he can’t say it. But for right now, tonight, he can listen.

_Fuck, Zayn wants to be here and listen to me touch myself._

Harry lets himself enjoy it, get louder, as he spits down onto his dick. His breathing goes heavier. He even lets a whine slip out here and there, as the pressure builds. Zayn needs the audio as he keeps his eyes shut tight, his hands in fists, his lip between his teeth.

Harry wants to touch him so badly, he can barely stand it. _Cup your chin. Touch your face. Jerking myself off with one hand and having you suck on my other hand’s fingers. Press my palm down onto your dick. Touch you there. You’ve let so many girls touch you. Would you let me?_

_Fuck._

Harry knew he wouldn’t last. He comes over his fist, chest heaving. He still doesn’t look away from Zayn as he milks the orgasm out of his cock, stroke after stroke. Zayn can’t open his eyes, but his face has gone red. Maybe he’s visualizing. Maybe he’s had dreams about Harry doing this since that night, and he’s reliving it. _Go back to your room and touch yourself, Zayn. Please, fucking Christ, go touch yourself._

Harry almost says it out loud.

But he can’t chance ruining it. He doesn’t want to scare Zayn off or send him scurrying away yet. He clumsily wipes his hand off on his jeans, never looking away from Zayn. He can’t help but think, as his cheeks pink even further, that he hopes he did a good job. Not too fast, not too quiet. Did he like it? _This was for you, for you, for you._

Eventually their breathing evens out. Harry tucks his dick back into his briefs and does up his jeans. Zayn’s eyes, while still closed, don’t clench as tightly. He relaxes once more, drunk and loose, his hands no longer in fists.

Harry still wants to touch him. He wants to do something stupid like hold his hand, or kiss him, or… just sit closer.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

They don’t say anything. They sit in the quiet.

They don’t fall asleep in the Jag, but neither of them move for a very long time.

 

***

 

Harry spends the weekend with his mother. He doesn’t whine or put up a fight as she pulls him along for the first few hours on campus, her heels clicking. Anne, with that practiced classy grin on her face, talks up the faculty and staff at F.M. to make sure they see her as attentive. Harry quietly stands beside her as she once again reminds the dean of their recent donations, Harry’s eventual acceptance letters, and how he’s such a good boy. Harry pretends not to notice the twitch to Mr. Levy’s eye at that particular statement.

Then she drags him along behind her, her manicured nails digging into his wrist, to the town car. They head into Plymouth where she drops way too much on a three-star hotel room with thin sheets. For two days, they shop at random boutiques, wherein Anne sends pictures to Gemma of clothing she knows Gemma hates, and then buys for her anyways. Then it’s drunken brunches for hours on end.

He can’t really complain. All of his friends would be gone until Sunday night. With campus at a near standstill, drugs-wise, Harry didn’t have many people texting to meet up. There wasn’t any reason to call Harry Styles, to get fucked up, when there were important, distinguished parents around. All of the posh families, going on tours of campus, meeting with faculty, rubbing elbows to see who’s who.

Without his friends around, Harry lets his mother play with his hair and tell him how pretty he is. He nods and smiles whenever she tells him about his cousins or various coworkers from the trust, because his mother thinks she’s funny. Which she isn’t.

But he barely pays attention.

It’s all just biding his time until Sunday night, when they’d be in the same room again.

There weren’t any goodbyes between him and Zayn, because by the time Harry roused the next morning after the party in the pool house, just in time for his mom’s car service to call ahead, all the boys had left already. Judging by their Instagrams, Louis and Zayn spend the weekend kicked back in Louis’s old bedroom. PlayStation, weed, family dinners.

Harry doesn’t feel jealous per se, but he wishes he could have that with Zayn, an ease between them again. Calmness. Friendship. _More_. Time spent on the couch watching shitty TV, feeding each other snacks, making out until their mouths were red and raw.

_I could jerk off for you again. And again and again, if you want me to. You don’t even have to ask. Just nod, give me the go-ahead, and I’ll know. I’ll do it._

Harry spends the weekend with his mother, thinking. He still answers her questions and fakes interest in her talk about the other trust fund babies in their neighborhood. But all he can think about is Zayn. How it started with their wrists touching in the woods, and now Harry gets off to the thought of Zayn holding him by the back of the neck. What it felt like to undo his jeans again, with a boy sitting on the same seat. The way they kept coming together, in cramped spaces, to share a secret. Zayn’s hands in fists, to keep himself from touching.

Eventually, Harry works it out in his head. He can’t explicitly talk about it with Zayn, per his instructions, but Harry gets it now.

He knows what to do.

 

***

 

On Sunday night, Harry bursts into Liam and Niall’s room without knocking. They startle a bit from Harry’s loud and intrusive arrival, where they sit at their desks, with their laptops open, ready to study for the night. But Harry shoves their books away because he’s on a mission. He grabs each of them into separate hugs and asks quite earnestly about their weekends with their families, if all of their siblings are well. After Liam’s mom died when he was in seventh grade, his sisters apparently went through a “rough patch.” But it’s been better for the last few years, so Liam pats Harry’s mopped head of hair and says that yes, his sisters are fine, as Harry hugs him a second time.

With a grin, Niall says he had a good boys weekend out on the boat, that Ruth, his not-a-girlfriend- _yet_ , texted him a picture of her tits, which was fantastic, and no, Harry cannot see it.

Exactly six minutes later, Harry bursts into Louis and Zayn’s room as well.

“How is the family? How was it?” he asks excitedly, grabbing for Louis.

Louis accepts the hug valiantly, until Harry keeps him close for a few seconds too long. But try as he might to get away, Harry has always been stronger. Louis eventually gives up and hugs Harry back just as fiercely.

“Good. It was fine,” he says with an exasperated smile.

“That’s great!” Harry beams, clapping him on the arms as he steps back.

Harry turns to see Zayn, shirtless and awkward near his desk, watching him with wide eyes. If he had a plan of his own, for how to approach Harry and their situation, he must have forgotten it. He stands there, still as a stone, like he doesn’t know how to move his leg muscles. But Harry won’t let him just stand there and he is still on a mission, so he grins and holds out his arms. He uses his eyes to send the message.

_I won’t let us be weird anymore. Come here._

“Did you have fun, Zayn? Isn’t Louis’s mansion _tiny_ compared to yours?” Harry says with a wink.

Before Zayn can answer or react, Harry steps forward to pull him in for a hug. He holds Zayn tightly against his chest, his arms around Zayn’s shoulders, shaking him a bit to hug him back. Louis makes a sound behind them, clearly surprised to see Harry and Zayn being friendly again. Zayn finally relaxes and winds his arms around Harry’s waist.

“Yeah, it was fun,” he says quietly, almost unsure. “Just like, chilled out.”

“You needed that,” Harry replies, speaking directly into Zayn’s messy hair. “Good for you to relax a bit, I think.”

Zayn nods and their temples knock together.

Harry could stand there hugging Zayn all night. He has to close his eyes for a few seconds, to soak in his smell and his warmth, the feel of his skin beneath his palms, the fact that their dicks are so close. But he can’t be overt about it. They can’t talk about their secret, the thing they’ve done twice now. And it is a secret. Harry knows it has to be a secret, and he’s ready for it. He’ll take whatever he can get.

That’s the mission. That’s the plan.

Before he steps away, he reaches a hand up and scratches at the base of Zayn’s neck, fingers in his hair. Like where Zayn touched him in the Jag. _Welcome back. I won’t say anything, I promise. Just let me hug you like old times. I’m very happy to see you._

Harry feels Zayn squeeze him a bit tighter, just for a second as if to say _thank you for understanding and for not being angry with me,_ and then they break apart.

“So,” Harry says to the both of them, shaking his head and clapping his hands once. “Midterms in a week, right before Thanksgiving. Time to really focus, yeah?”

Louis narrows his eyes at Harry, but nods.

“My dad sent me a grand in cash, so I shall supply the snacks,” Harry says in a rush. “ _And_ the Adderall, so long as you two let me crash on your floor on the nights when Jack gets especially unbearable. And let me sell from in here, of course. I’m a very Busy Bee.”

Zayn smiles and looks down at his socked feet.

“See you two losers later,” Harry finishes with a grin, to Louis and then to Zayn. He blinks at him, to send the message. _I will see you later, right?_

Zayn grins back, sheepishly, with that half-grin he does so well, as Harry practically jumps for joy as he steps into the hall and pulls the door shut.

After the peace offering, after practically declaring _let’s keep doing this, as long as you want, because I can’t really think about anything else and I don’t want to stop,_ Harry tries to keep busy. He really does. He meets up with a few juniors, jogs over to the sophomore dorm to make his rounds and toss out about thirty dime bags. He does a few throw away lines with Kash and Yancy just because, right as his phone lights up with a text from his father, admonishing his shitty math grade.

And then he goes back to his room and perches at his desk, with his laptop open and his history notes spread out on the wooden surface, his feet tapping together, his eye twitching. But then he ends up organizing his sock drawer according to color, his focus and attention completely elsewhere.

It’s not late enough. There are too many students still awake and out of bed for him to chance it. He doesn’t want to run into Wallace. Too early. Too soon. Then Harry tries to read a book for English, something fucking _lame_ about this guy who can’t seem to figure his shit out even after he causes death and destruction around him, so _that_ won’t work. So Harry rearranges his shirts in his closet according to designer, to see if it’ll take the pressure off. But it doesn’t. He just hears Jack huffing and puffing from his desk, the more Harry paces their room with the various hangers in his shaking hands.

Eventually Harry gives up. He throws on his beanie and hoodie, to hide himself a bit, and grabs for his packed pipe and lighter.

It’ll all be better once he’s in the Jag, he thinks. He practically runs to his car, hoping to avoid anyone still awake at _nine_ , and throws himself inside. With shaking fingers, he takes a hit. And it isn’t until he’s exhaling the smoke that he finally leans back in the seat, to rest his head. _Close your eyes and wait, Harry. Try to think about other shit. Don’t get your hopes up._

It’s just that Harry gets it now. When they were alone that night in the pool house, Zayn said, “It’s easier to say I forgot.” He’s not ready to face this, or Harry, or whatever they’ve started. But he keeps coming back. He didn’t want it to be weird, for Harry to go away forever, to never hang out again.

And on a night when Zayn got so drunk out of his mind, he could barely see straight, he found the Jag.

If they have to keep it a secret, so be it. If all Harry gets for now is time spent with his best friend, wherein he has some of the best orgasms of his short, pathetic life, he’ll do it. If they’re going to be two straight boys, for now, then fine. _I’ll do anything you want._

Harry takes another hit with his eyes closed and exhales.

Zayn Malik shows up twenty-two minutes later, in a hoodie of his own. He slides into the car easy as anything, and wordlessly takes the pipe and lighter from Harry. Harry watches him, his eyelids heavy like cement, his entire body thrumming with pent up energy and THC. Zayn takes three very quick hits in a row, like he’s trying to catch up.

“Hey,” Zayn finally speaks, setting the pipe and lighter up on the dashboard.

“Hi.”

“You started without me?”

“Didn’t know if you were coming,” Harry admits, tucking his chin into his shoulder. “Thought I might as well…”

“I’m here,” Zayn says with a slow nod, looking out the front window.

“Good.”

Harry waits a few more minutes, to let the high settle for both of them. He wiggles his toes in his shoes, licks his lips, pinches his arms, to see if he’s on that next level.

And he is. They both are. Harry can tell because Zayn hunches a bit when he’s stoned, his shoulders curled, like he could fall forward to rest his face on his knees. It’s terrible for his posture. So Harry reaches his hand out and grips Zayn by the neck. Zayn groans at the pressure and straightens his spine, leans back into Harry’s hand. Harry feels his dick perk up in his boxers, at the sound.

He massages Zayn’s neck for a few minutes more, as Zayn closes his eyes and smiles a bit. God, Harry could stare at him all fucking day. He’s beautiful. Too fucking beautiful for his own good. _No wonder I’m gay, with you around._

At the thought, Harry smiles like an idiot.

Zayn reaches up then, and grips Harry’s hand in his own. Harry’s breath catches as Zayn brings their hands down to the seat, in between their bodies. He doesn’t link their fingers together, doesn’t hold very tightly, but it’s something. Harry remembers thinking about holding Zayn’s hand in this very car, and he very nearly cries. It feels amazing, to not just feel gay, but to look down and see his hand covered by a boy’s. To _be_ gay. To be the person he is. It’s nice to be with Zayn, who has finally started to give in to what he really wants.

Eventually, Zayn lets go. He brings his own hands back to his lap and settles in. He schools his face to be serious, eyes closed, his lip between his teeth. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s ready for it.

And Harry understands. Because they have an understanding now.

He has to bite his own lip, to suppress his smile, as he once again reaches a hand down his track pants, under his boxers.

When he eventually comes, he swears he hears Zayn make a sound.

 

***

 

It becomes their place.

Again.

 

***

 

“This is fucking dumb,” Niall intones, standing in the center of Lou and Zayn’s room with a frown on his freckled face.

“Just because _you’re_ a pussy doesn’t mean we all are,” Louis says, smacking him in the dick.

Liam laughs from Louis’s desk, where he’s cutting lines of blow with an expired AmEx from his wallet. All of their books are stacked there, ignored for the night, a short reprieve from their intense studying. Zayn laughs along with Liam, not _quite_ as manically, as he rolls his desk chair over to his bed and pulls on a pair of black latex gloves.

“It barely hurts, Ni,” Liam says with a wince, as he rubs at his nose and swipes the tip of his finger over his gums to get the residue from the desk. He then bounds over to Zayn’s bed and throws himself onto it, shoving his arm towards Zayn’s face. “I want the phrase we talked about, on the outside of my wrist.”

“You sure about this font?” Zayn muses, moving his glasses up his nose.

“I like a clean font, Zayn,” Liam says with a roll to his eyes.

Harry, who had just gotten back from his own room where he met up with a few freshmen looking for pills, watches like he used to, perched right over Zayn’s shoulder. It’s the best excuse there is, to be close to Zayn, to stare at the curve of his jaw, the strength in his back, the curl of his toes. If Harry shifts every so often so that his thigh rubs up against Zayn’s lower back, whenever he reaches for more ink, well that’s just a coincidence. Zayn doesn’t return the pressure or lean into it. But as he works the needle across Liam’s skin, he doesn’t tell Harry to stop.

Next up is Louis, who asks for two small quotation marks on the inside of his wrist. He won’t say why, and for him to have such a serious face as Zayn punctures his skin over and over again with a needle means the boys aren’t supposed to ask. Zayn does as instructed and gives Louis the tattoo he wants, while also telling him in a calm voice that he can always add more later, if Louis thinks of something special to be inside the quotes. Louis only nods at that, with a slight frown.

After Zayn finishes up with Louis and begins to wipe down his desk, Niall is still no closer to getting a tattoo of his own. He tries to tell them all, yet again, how dumb it is to brand yourself with something so permanent, when the universe is so “unpermanent.”

“That’s not a word,” Harry says with a laugh, moving to Zayn’s bed.

“You’re so fucking pretentious,” Niall says to Harry with an annoyed huff, which they all know to be true, reaching for the weed Harry brought. Sometimes when Niall gets too irritated, he needs to keep his hands busy. If that means rolling joints so Harry doesn’t have to, by all means.

Niall, Louis, and Liam then get into a heated discussion about tattoos and the transient nature of the universe, which is just too much for Harry at the moment. He watches Zayn clean up his little workstation and pull on a new, clean pair of gloves. His movements, as always, are measured and contained. Harry, so used to flailing and tripping his way through life, loves that about Zayn. His body listens to him when he tells it to stay still. To remain calm.

Zayn catches him staring and rolls his eyes.

“So what are we going to do with you?” Zayn says quietly, moving his chair closer to the bed.

He eyes Harry’s exposed ankles, since he showed up in only a pair of tiny running shorts, a thin black t-shirt, and a towel wrapped around his head. Even in the middle of November, Harry walks around Morton Hall like it’s his own personal day spa. Harry looks down at his own ankles, remembering the little screw he told the boys he would get, so the four of them could match.

But it doesn’t feel right. Not for his very first tattoo, not tonight, not when he’s anticipating their time together later. Alone in the Jag. Yet again. They’ve been meeting up almost every night in the Jag, to do The Thing. But midterms are just days away, which means Jack is even worse than usual. So Harry had to crash on their floor the last two nights, and they weren’t able to sneak out the night before. Louis would notice if both Zayn and Harry were gone.

It’s been a few too many hours without a hit of Zayn Malik, if you ask Harry.

“No,” he shakes his wet head of hair, shifting on the bed. “Not my ankle.”

Zayn nods, indifferent, eyes moving up to Harry’s wrists and arms. He must be envisioning the type of Wingding shit Louis would want. Or maybe something like the artwork Liam has been talking about for weeks on end, the feather or the Payne crest or another quote for his forearm.

Harry, the little shit that he is, shakes his head once more. And then he reaches for the hem of his t-shirt to pull it all the way off. Zayn stares at him, their eyes locked, until he traces Harry’s neck, shoulders, and chest with his suddenly blackened eyes. Harry shoves his shirt to the end of the bed and lays down so he can use it as a pillow, smirking. The other three boys, still so entrenched in their conversation near Louis’s desk, don’t notice.

“On my hipbone, please,” Harry says, his eyes set.

_You pressed a finger there once, remember? Said you knew a tattoo was good if your mother could never look at it up close. I want that. Do it._

Zayn blinks a few times and bites at his top lip, eyes roaming Harry’s belly button, the jut of his hips, the hair peeking out the top of his grey Calvin Klein briefs.

“What do you want?” he finally answers, voice low.

“A phrase.”

“Okay.”

“In your handwriting. Or like, your _nice_ handwriting,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose at the thought of Zayn’s regular school-day chicken scratch. “To say… ‘Might as well.’”

Zayn nods.

By some miracle of the universe, the other three boys don’t come over to watch as Zayn does a rough draft stencil on Harry’s skin. They don’t impose on the moment, too strung out and high on chemicals, discussing a higher being and “what it all means” to care about Harry’s first tattoo. The little phrase that so encapsulates their… thing. Whatever their thing is.

_Might as well have fun with it. Might as well discover all the ways I’m different and new now, even if you can’t yet. Might as well masturbate mere inches from you, so you can be apart of it._

The boys don’t bother them at all. It’s just Harry and Zayn, thankfully. Zayn, so tentative and soft with his fingers, holds Harry’s hip as the gun stirs.

“Ready?” Zayn says quietly, face tipping up from near Harry’s navel so he can look into Harry’s eyes.

Harry nods.

In that moment, as the hot needle presses into his skin, he barely feels it. He couldn’t even begin to tell you if it hurt. All he focuses on is Zayn, the way he hunches over Harry’s torso to write the words into his skin, with what might as well be a rather warm pen.

Harry, with his hands behind his head, wills his cock to stay down. It’s not time yet. Even if Zayn’s face is the closest it’s ever been to his groin, Harry can’t go there. Not yet. Not until they’re alone in his car. He wants to touch Zayn, play with his hair, run a finger along his jaw, as he works. Zayn, in his “office,” doing his job. Focused, kind, sincere. But he keeps his hands to himself. He can’t mess Zayn up. He can’t be annoying.

Not that it works as well as he hoped. His cock, the traitorous bastard that it is, refuses to listen. Harry shifts a bit, to see if he can bunch up the fabric of his shorts, to conceal it.

“Stop moving,” Zayn says quietly, pressing his entire left hand down on Harry’s stomach as he squirms. The tattoo gun in his right hand whines in protest, like it’s angry with Harry, too.

He just looks so _fucking_ good. Zayn doesn’t blink for minutes at a time when he’s in the zone, and Harry has to look away so he won’t stare at Zayn’s fixated eyes. The hand on his stomach, the focus on Harry’s skin, the delicate way his eyelashes brush his cheeks.

Jesus. Too much of Zayn’s attention on any of Harry’s body parts at any given moment is not good for Harry’s poker face, clearly.

“Sorry,” Harry breathes out, snapping out of it, his ab muscles dancing under Zayn’s gloved palm.

They’re both _scorching_.

Harry would tattoo his entire fucking body, if it meant Zayn keeping his hand on his stomach like that. A few inches south and Zayn could cup his dick in his hand. Squeeze it a little. Apply some pressure as he brands Harry in his handwriting.

Harry closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. _Motherfucker._

Since the tattoo is so small and simple, it’s over before Harry can register it. The process takes about thirty seconds, it seems. He looks down as Zayn shifts away from him, lets his skin go, stops touching him. And there it is, the three little words, in Zayn’s simple script, an added ellipsis at the end, a dot dot dot. Like there’s more to come, more to be said. Zayn, as always, made the work his own.

_Might as well. . ._

Harry can’t stop staring at the raised ink, the redness of his skin.

_I have a tattoo. Holy shit, it’s done. Forever._

He laughs nervously, as he looks up at Zayn’s face.

Zayn nods as a thank you, for staying mostly still and for being a good customer.

“I love it,” Harry says, moving his leg so that his calf rests up against Zayn’s forearm, their skin touching, scorching, on fire like always. They still haven’t touched for real in the Jag, and Zayn still hasn’t watched Harry come into his fist. But he shows up night after night, and it’s enough to keep Harry on almost constant edge.

Zayn smiles.

“Be sure not to touch it for a few hours,” he reminds Harry, reaching for the plastic wrap so he can tape it up.

“I won’t.”

Once he’s done, Zayn pats at Harry’s other hip, twice, before shoving away from the bed, like he’s surprised himself.

And Harry listens. He leaves the tape alone, he doesn’t fuck around with it even as it starts to itch a bit. When he goes back to his room to change and get ready, he doesn’t touch it once.

 

***

 

Later that night, it’s not until Harry’s careening over the edge, one hand in his hair and the other working his cock roughly, that he realizes it’s the first time he’s done this completely sober. Every time they’ve met up in his car in the parking lot, hidden under a tree, lit up by the moon, they’ve either been drunk, stoned, or both.

Tonight, while also fucking freezing cold because of the weather, he’s also stone cold sober. The most sober he’s ever been. There was a definite adrenaline rush as he got his first tattoo, so that must be what propelled him into the rest of his night, without a backwards thought. He didn’t bring a bottle of bourbon, he forgot his pipe on his dresser, his hidden stash of joints within the glove compartment is empty.

Harry huffs a visible breath as his eyes slide closed, as he encircles the tip with his icy thumb and forefinger. Zayn, also sober, moves around in his seat. Harry can feel him shifting, his weight rocking from side to side, like he can’t get comfortable. Harry knows Zayn gets hard from this. He _knows_. And he can’t imagine having to stifle it, to keep his hands to himself, if the roles were reversed.

It’s too much. It’s like he’s alive in a brand new way, after having Zayn’s tattoo gun buzzing against his skin only a few hours ago. It did something to Harry, to his brain, his body, every nerve ending. No wonder people say tattoos are addictive. With an already addictive personality, Harry jerks himself off faster and can’t help but imagine all the other pieces of ink he’ll ask Zayn for.

And won’t that be lovely. Zayn’s hands on him again, when they seldom get to touch. Zayn won’t touch Harry in the Jag, but he touched him for the tattoo. Zayn’s eyes danced across Harry’s body like it was all he could do to stop himself from touching even more of him.

_Fuck, maybe I’ll get something on my other hip. Or my thigh. Anywhere, I don’t even care. Shit. I wish I could touch you. I wish we could touch right now._

Harry moves his arm faster, the precome giving him just enough glide to make it hard and fast. He’s close. _I’m so fucking close. Zayn. Fuck._

Harry inhales as he seizes up, embracing the release.

“Wait,” Zayn interrupts him in a near whisper.

Harry almost hits his head against the cool glass of his window in surprise. His eyes fly open as he whips his head around to stare at Zayn.

Zayn’s staring back.

Holy fucking shit. Zayn hadn’t shifted from nerves or anxiety. He hadn’t shifted away. He shifted so that one of his legs could be up on the seat, so he could lean fully back against the passenger door. To watch. To fucking watch, to see it, to be apart of it for real. Finally.

Harry’s jaw drops.

Zayn, focused and steadfast, like he can’t stop this anymore. Like maybe it was inevitable. Or maybe not inevitable, but maybe he made the choice.

He messes with the jet-black hair flopping down onto his forehead. His eyes have gone dark again, like they did when he took in Harry’s bare chest on his bed earlier. He looks at Harry’s face, and then down to his leaking cock. Up and down. Like he can’t choose which one he wants to stare at more.

“Go slower,” he finally says, quiet as a mouse.

Harry nods, still dumbfounded, his heart racing. “Yeah,” he mumbles, still nodding, moving his hand up and down his cock. Slowly. So much slower than he wants to, now that he’s pretty sure he could jizz all over himself.

But he does as he’s told, keeps his fingers tight, paying attention to the head on the upstroke. He goes as slow as he can, edging himself until his eyes could cross, his lip practically bitten raw. He watches Zayn watch him, how he plays with his hair like he does when he’s bored in class, except instead of staring at his own sketches or up at a white board, he’s staring at Harry’s fucking dick.

“Shit,” Harry can’t help but whisper, his orgasm close.

“Yeah, like that,” Zayn whispers back, nodding. “Do it slow.”

Harry almost comes just from Zayn’s voice, his words, his unwavering attention. _I’ll do it however you want. I’ll do anything you ask._ He goes so fucking slow, he keeps his pace nice and leisurely, like they have all the time in the world. He wants to close his eyes, to focus, to keep calm, but he can’t look away from Zayn. His face, the tent in his jeans, the fist he makes with his other hand as it lays on the back of the seat. If Zayn reached out, he could probably grip Harry by the shoulder inside the cramped car.

The thought of Zayn touching him now, is enough.

Harry comes over his fingers with a low, unrelenting grunt. He almost passes out as strings of come hit his shirt, his stomach, the plastic wrap Zayn taped over his tattoo. He squeezes himself a bit, breath harsh in his throat, to get the last few drops.

“Fuck,” he wheezes, his cock sensitive to the touch. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps stroking himself until there’s nothing left.

To his right, Zayn exhales. He shifts his weight again. And Harry thinks it’s to settle back against the seat once more, for both of them to come down. Zayn’s pretty good about not running away immediately after Harry comes, but he doesn’t linger too long. It’s like once the spell is broken and Harry wipes away the sticky mess, Zayn knows it’s time to go, to put the brakes on whatever feeling spring up inside of him, the feelings Harry can’t quiet anymore.

Harry also likes to think that Zayn immediately has to go jerk off in the privacy of a shower stall or over a toilet. But he’s never asked.

Harry looks down as he tucks himself back into his pants and wipes his hand on his shirt, like an idiot, as Zayn shifts once more. Harry knows him well, and knows it’s time. He wants to go. To get away. To pretend this isn’t something they do.

But Zayn watched. He fucking watched, he hurled himself off the cliff, he willingly accepted what Harry had to give. He _participated_ , for Christ’s sake. _Yeah, like that, do it slow._ Their little arrangement wasn’t just one-sided anymore.

And it seems they have the realization at the same time. Because Harry sees it happening right before his eyes. He sees Zayn struggling. Like physically struggling, his eyes screwed up, small beads of sweat along his hairline. He squirms, presses a hand to his erection, huffs an anxious breath, like there are binds holding him inside the car. It’s like Zayn is a ball of conflicting energies, as he scratches at his neck, his face a mess. And that look on Zayn’s face gives all of his emotions away.

Terror. Shame. Fear.

Harry sees it all happening in front of him, the shit he grappled with when he knew: _I’m gay gay gay._ He almost grabs for Zayn’s hand to assure him somehow, but he doesn’t. Zayn told him that night by the pool that they can’t talk about it. They can’t speak the word out loud. They are what they are, and that’s okay. So Harry just turns in his seat, ready to give a simple nod and whispered goodbye, so that Zayn can go freak out, or scream, or cry in peace.

But Harry stops himself, when he realizes Zayn isn’t leaving. Whatever panic induced freak out that could blow up between them inside the Jag, doesn’t happen. Zayn’s breathing hasn’t calmed exactly, but he blinks over and over like he’s repeating something to himself. To _try_ to settle. To breathe. He stays in the seat, his hands gripping at his thighs like they’re stress balls.

Harry continues to watch. He doesn’t speak. He can’t help but think about the fact that he came when Zayn finally played a part in their little dance inside the Jag, and how amazing that felt. But he also can’t believe that Zayn hasn’t left. They’re still together. Still seated.

_Why aren’t you running?_

And maybe Harry knows it’s going to happen before it actually does, because he inches his hand over on the seat.

“Zayn…” Harry says quietly.

Hearing his name, Zayn looks at Harry. He looks right through Harry, like he has a word on the tip of his tongue that he can’t quite remember. Still terrified. Still a mess.

But maybe despite that, he thinks some variation of _fuck it_ , because not even three seconds later, even in the midst of a panic attack, Zayn launches himself across the seat to pull Harry’s face against his. Harry gasps as Zayn’s ringed fingers dig into his neck, their mouths finally fucking colliding.

Harry practically claws at Zayn’s chest to get closer. To press back. To kiss a boy in his daddy’s Jag. To kiss _Zayn_ , after all this time.

Their first kiss has weight to it. Heated and rough. It’s not rushed, it’s not soft. No anxiety or worry over what they’re doing, with one of them ready to bolt out into the night. They both stay. They hold on. Harry melts into it like Zayn’s the only source of warmth on earth, completely at the mercy of Zayn’s mouth. It’s Harry’s first kiss with a boy, just as he assumes it’s Zayn’s. It’s new and exhilarating, as they both keep close and throw themselves at it, further into their secret.

It’s two little rich boys, on the edge of seventeen.

Harry slips his tongue into Zayn’s mouth and when Zayn presses his back, Harry very nearly gets a hard on all over again. If he had more room, Harry is pretty sure he’d be scrambling up onto Zayn’s lap to hold his hairy face between his palms. To touch Zayn everywhere, all the places he never thought he was allowed to, hard muscle and rough skin. To rut down against his cock until Zayn was coming in the Jag, too.

But there’s time for that.

After the initial shock of it, when they catch their breath and end up just breathing the same inch of oxygen between them, it’s easier to take in. Shorter, sweeter kisses. One after the other, to taste and taste and taste. To realize what they’re doing. Harry reaches down for the hand of Zayn’s that isn’t on his cheek, to make sure Zayn’s happy with it. _Are you sure? Is this okay?_

Zayn squeezes his fingers.

An entire millennium later, they break apart. Harry leans his forehead against Zayn’s cheek and closes his eyes, curling into Zayn’s side. To savor the moment. It’s a wonderful sort of warmth, after a long autumn of feeling too cold. Too alone out in the world.

But as always, Harry can never keep his mouth shut, his brutal honesty shining through.

“I’m gonna want to do that all the time,” he admits, voice shaking at the admission. He can’t open his eyes. He can’t lose the magic. _I want you I want you I want you._

Zayn exhales.

“Okay,” he gives in, the word barely a whisper, scratching at Harry’s hair.

“Can I?”

“Yeah, H. You… Yeah, you can kiss me whenever you want.”

Harry knows he means behind closed doors, in the car, somewhere tucked away, because they can’t be seen. And that’s fine.

“Okay,” Harry says with a small smile, still not moving.

Normally when Harry is faced with an emotion he finds to be overwhelming, he takes it in his hands and gets rid of it. It’s what Gemma taught him. If something feels too heavy, too much, too out of control… he throws it at the world instead of feeling it. He freaks out, erases it, disposes of it. He crumples it up like an old piece of notebook paper and throws it away.

But up until that moment, he’s never kissed a boy. He’s never kissed Zayn Malik. And even though the emotions coursing through his veins could send him running for the fucking hills, screaming _look at me_ to all the girls in his class, to get his dick sucked by one of them, he finds himself more settled and content than he’s ever been.

Maybe Zayn feels the same way. He still hasn’t moved. The night sky is as dark as ever above them, the world hasn’t changed, their sprawling campus is as still as a painting. This little place that always felt like home. They stay close, touching, holding on.

Zayn presses his lips against Harry’s temple, his forehead, the top of his cheekbone.

And because his thoughts create his world, Harry very nearly cries.

 

***

 

It’s snowing. It’s the end of the day, about when the sun has started to make its way west, darker than it’s been all year. And all Harry can comprehend, when he’s not staring at Zayn, is that it’s finally snowing.

A light dusting of flakes fall to the frozen New Hampshire ground just outside the massive windows of Robson Hall, randomly reminding Harry of the first few lines of a nursery rhyme Gemma must’ve sang to him when they were young.

_Snowflake, snowflake, little snowflake. Little snowflake falling from the sky. Falling, falling, falling, falling, falling… falling on my nose._

Harry’s eyes bounce back and forth, over and over, all through Sociology: Zayn, the snow, Zayn, the snow. He can’t concentrate there in that cramped, stuffy classroom with ten F.M. seniors around him and Mr. Colicelli rambling on with too many Sharpie stains on his hands about their midterm the next day. Harry could give two shits about his exams; all he wants to do is get Zayn out there in the snow, to watch the snowflakes land on his nose.

But Zayn doesn’t return Harry’s gaze. He just sits in his desk, perfectly silhouetted in front of the windows, doodling a new tattoo for someone. Long hair, long eyelashes, tight blue blazer hugging his shoulders. Harry bites at his pen so hard, it’s a fucking miracle the ink doesn’t stain his teeth.

_We kissed. And you said I could kiss you more, any time I wanted to, all the time. We have a thing. We’re doing something. We’re… something._

Harry bites his pen harder, eyes unblinking, finally ignoring the snow, staring at only Zayn to will him into some eye contact.

_Look at me._

At the front of the classroom, Karen Strasberg begins to speak, probably asking some ridiculous question about the write-in portion of the next day’s test. Karen always freaks out over that kind of bullshit. Harry curls a hand around the edge of his desk.

_I want to kiss you so fucking bad. Right now._

Zayn must finally give into his gaze, because he gives Harry a fucking inch, a _fraction_ , of a head turn. He glances over and smirks slightly, like a fucking asshole, before focusing back on Colicelli. Zayn is always so good when they’re in class; he has been since freshmen year. Quiet, dignified, never one to make trouble for their teachers. He always said his dad would fucking murder him if he got suspended, so he never passes notes, or sneaks texts on his phone, or whispers shit to the boys when they can get a spare few seconds.

Harry wants to push him though, so he leans down a bit and smiles. As Colicelli drones on about whatever the fuck they’re learning this term, Harry Styles gives Zayn Malik his classic Smile for the first time. It’s the first time he’s ever given a boy the Smile. It’s a fucking rush, when Zayn ruffles a bit: scratches at his hair, looks away nervously, smiling to himself.

_I’ve got you now, don’t I._

“Mr. Styles, do you have a question?”

Harry almost falls clean out of his chair as he scrambles to sit upright, the flirtatious expression practically thrown out into the hallway. As he clears his throat and randomly moves his books around on his desk, to pretend like he has some fucking idea of what they’re discussing, Harry very distinctly hears Zayn snort a laugh over near the windows.

The bastard.

 

***

 

Foster Montgomery students are good at keeping secrets.

Each and every person Harry passes, on any given day, is hiding something. They all have to hide from their parents how they’re _really_ coping: how they get through the day, their real grades, their actual study habits, the drugs they take.

They keep secrets constantly, from those in charge. Girls who hold hands while they wait for calls from the women’s clinic in town, groups of friends who admit with their heads hanging why their parents split up, the cheat sheets _entire_ classrooms of students slide across the floor under their Birkenstocks without teachers noticing. It’s why the Styles siblings do what they do, and why they’re so good at it. It’s why when Harry slips a gram into a girl’s hand in a hallway and another student sees a teacher glance over, suddenly Harry has some strange sophomore hanging on his back, laughing in his ear like they’re old friends, to cover him.

Say what you will about the rich kids of the world, but they know how to take care of their own. Harry’s world, and the world of his peers, is very much a tight-knit community built on the backs of children who grew up too quickly. They see each other struggle, throw up their dinners in bathroom stalls, cry behind the stacks in the library, and when it comes to external forces, teachers, faculty, parents… they keep their mouths shut.

They have each other’s backs.

And yet on the other hand, like at any high school, Foster Montgomery students like to talk.

Harry sometimes has to remember that their entire student body, give or take a few people, are packed together like sardines every day of the week in very close quarters. There’s not a lot that goes on with his classmates that Harry doesn’t know about, and vice versa.

For every student puking up his or her dinner in a bathroom, there’s another student in the next stall texting their entire class about it. Word travels fast at F.M. in hushed whispers, in cramped dorm rooms under a smoky haze, at parties in quiet corners. They all know about the junior girl who was assaulted by her riding instructor last summer. The sophomore transfer’s family that had a real, actual Nanny-Gate situation the year before, when his dad fucked the nanny in Palm Springs over winter break. It’s widely known that Hunter Van Rosen’s dad filed for bankruptcy and his entire tuition for the last two years came from a _loan_.

And just last month, three juniors had a threesome after one of their class parties, wherein someone may or may not have given the other two gonorrhea.

These are all things Harry has heard second hand.

No judgment from anyone, and certainly no ill will. It’s like water cooler entertainment for a bunch of kids who aren’t allowed to have cable in their rooms. They talk about their own lives like it’s a soap opera. Harry remembers Leah Something saying their little world away from the world was like “a TV show, like it’s not real life.”

So it’s no surprise that as winter storms its way into their little haven right as midterms begin, Harry knows now more than ever to keep his shit together. If he stares at Zayn for too long between classes, or moves his chair closer to him in the dining hall that morning at breakfast, when Zayn doesn’t stare back or moves away, it’s for a reason. Their classmates aren’t assholes. If by some chance someone found out about them, or if Harry one day decided to march around with a dick drawn on his face, declaring “I’m gay!” to high heaven, he wouldn’t be called a faggot and have the shit kicked out of him. People would be surprised of course, and would definitely talk, since Harry Styles has never been shy about his female conquests. But it’s New Hampshire for Christ’s sake; it’s a pretty progressive place, all things considered.

Still, people would definitely talk.

Which is ironic, because Harry and Zayn haven’t even talked themselves. Even though Harry doesn’t care about his classes, Zayn and their friends certainly do. After Harry’s embarrassment in Sociology the day before, Zayn gave a small smile as he quickly jetted off to his room to study for hours with Louis and Liam. Niall said he wanted to study with Ruth, which left Harry to his own room with Jack.

Not that he got much done. He organized his sock drawer, again, as he thought in circles about Zayn. They hadn’t discussed what they were, or what they were doing, afterwards in the Jag. After all, Zayn was the one who said they couldn’t. And then their first kiss happened within quite the anxiety spiral on Zayn’s part, and then they had to separate.

If he wasn’t so busy for those two days, Harry’s pretty sure his brain would’ve exploded all over his dorm room wall, with his thoughts of _Zayn, Zayn, Zayn_ painting it red for the entire school to read like a diary.

Wondering what Zayn wants. Or what he’ll say.

At long last, after dinner on the night before Thanksgiving break, finally free of the pressure, the five boys collapse into various heaps around Harry’s room. Even with his thoughts heavily Zayn-centric, and his body thrilled to be so close to him in the same space, Harry can’t stop himself from closing his eyes as the boys remove their blazers and ties to settle themselves. They’re all exhausted from the day’s endless barrage of test questions, chemistry equations, and essay points.

They breathe in the silence for a few minutes, taking in the quiet of the falling snow just outside the window. Harry realizes that Zayn is on the floor right beneath him, and if he reached his hand down just so, he could play with his hair.

“Do you know what the worst part about midterms is?” Liam interrupts his thoughts quietly from the floor near Jack’s bed, his hands over his face to cover his tired, bloodshot eyes.

A series of grunts tells him the boys are still listening.

“We still have another round of this shit in a month, with finals right before Christmas,” he finishes with a groan.

From his bed, Harry hears Liam howl in pain, probably from some form of dick slapping from Louis.

“Don’t remind us of tests when we’ve just finished tests, Liam,” Louis scolds him. “Jesus Christ.”

Harry smiles into his pillow, eyes still closed. He probably shouldn’t, since he’s seconds from falling asleep, and that would be rather rude, to pass out while he has guests. It’s their last night before the holiday weekend. Jack won’t be back for at least an hour. They could share a joint or two, enjoy the peace and quiet, spend some real time together.

But Louis makes an actual snoring sound from the floor, like he’s caught himself falling asleep, and that’s that.

Niall is the first to cave.

“Alright, boys. Let’s pack it in,” he says, getting up from Jack’s bed even though he’s been asked not to lie on it. “I leave early in the morning, so I’ll see you next week.”

“I’m out as well,” Liam joins him. “Gonna go see the girls for awhile. And then… I don’t know, I’ll leave whenever tomorrow. Whenever my stepmom says so.”

Harry mumbles into his pillow, as a dual Happy Thanksgiving and goodbye. When he feels two sharp slaps to his ass in quick succession, he knows they understood and left.

Harry, Zayn, and Louis all doze for a few minutes more, until Louis also pulls himself up. Harry finally shifts so that he can open his eyes, right as Louis cracks his back and holds out a hand to help Zayn stand.

But Zayn, on his back, using Harry’s gym bag as a pillow, doesn’t move.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty,” Louis kicks his shin. “Harold needs to sleep, and you need to pack.”

“I hate packing,” Zayn mumbles, still not moving.

“You’re not borrowing my boxers anymore, I’ve already told you. Get up.”

Harry frowns at that, suddenly wide awake, as he realizes what they’re saying.

“Five more minutes,” Zayn huffs.

“I don’t have time for you,” Louis says with a flourish, moving towards the door. “I have a hot date to attend to, so if you will both excuse me.”

Harry waves him off, before turning to look down at Zayn among his laundry on the floor. He wants to ask about the fact that Zayn isn’t going home, again, and is instead going home with Louis. He wants to ask about what’s going on there, if he needs to talk, if something happened.

But then it hits Harry, just as it must hit Zayn if him opening his eyes is anything to go by.

They’re alone. Finally.

“Hey,” Harry mumbles, starting to smile.

“Hey,” Zayn responds, also smiling.

Harry almost throws himself down onto the wood floor beside him, to curl up against his chest and breathe all of him in, as Zayn smiles with his lip between his teeth. Harry feels a swift kick to the chest, as if his lungs have forgotten how to function properly. Zayn’s mouth has that effect on him.

But Zayn saves him the trouble, and in that awkward yet lithe way of his, moves from the floor to the bed in no time at all. Harry holds his breath as he turns onto his back and Zayn crowds up next to him, on his side so he can look down at Harry instead.

They’ve never been this close before. Not as friends when they were younger, messing around or play fighting, not in the Jag when Harry couldn’t keep his hands still. Everything between them has irreversibly shifted, once Zayn decided to make the move in the Jag. To move them forward. Harry wants to see how much more they’ll move then, as night falls around them, in his tiny twin bed.

How much more he can get from Zayn.

“Why aren’t you going home?” Harry says, because he can never shut the fuck up. He runs his hand up and down Zayn’s arm though, now that he’s allowed to touch. To feel.

“Didn’t feel like it,” Zayn says, eyes roaming across Harry’s face and neck.

“Liar.”

“I just can’t right now,” Zayn shakes his head, hand moving to Harry’s stomach like he did when he tattooed him. “It’s not – we’re not getting along.”

“Why?”

“Is this really what you wanna be doing right now?” Zayn questions him, fingers tugging at the hem of Harry’s shirt, right over Harry’s tattoo.

Harry’s heart almost explodes at the gesture, so fucking aware of what they’re doing. Of all the people he envisioned in his bed, especially this year, he can’t believe it’s Zayn. A _boy_. Two boys tucked together in a bed, with their socked feet touching. And Zayn, a boy, teasing Harry’s shirt between his fingers. His fingers!

“Breathe,” Zayn says with a small laugh, reading Harry’s expression.

He leans down and kisses Harry, to finally take the lead, their lips brushing gently like it’s the first time all over again. Sweeter and more calm this time around. Harry opens right up for him, seeks Zayn’s tongue like he’d beg for it. He makes out with Zayn fucking Malik, right there on his bed, with his hands in Zayn’s beautiful hair.

Zayn doesn’t move his hand from Harry’s stomach, doesn’t try to sneak into his pants, or up under his shirt to feel his skin. He just kisses Harry until they’re breathless, shifting his head just so, whenever he feels Harry squirming beneath him. When he kisses at Harry’s neck, like he’s unsure if he should, Harry huffs a breath into Zayn’s ear as he feels himself making a mess in his boxers. Wet. Leaking. Zayn makes him crazy, makes his blood run scorching hot, searing, his veins on fire.

_It’s never been like this, not with any girl, not with anyone else. Just you. I wish we had a song playing, something classic, for us._

Harry knows how this could go: Zayn exploring him, allowing himself to feel Harry beneath him, the way it feels different than all the girls before. Kissing, just kissing, to savor how it tastes. To do this, to _be_ this, whatever he is, whatever he can’t put a label on yet. _Not a girl, not a girl, not a girl,_ all of that skin for Zayn to feel against his mouth. And that would be fine, to let their brief time together be unhurried and PG… if Harry couldn’t already feel Zayn’s erection pressed up against his thigh.

They’re both too fucked to just keep kissing.

So Harry does what Harry does best.

“Fuck, Zayn,” he whines into Zayn’s ear, as Zayn trails kisses along his neck and jaw.

It works because Zayn’s entire body tenses as he shifts even closer, like he needs the pressure or the friction. He nods a bit, his teeth against Harry’s neck, like it hurts to keep in control.

_Poor Zayn, spent all those weeks not touching himself, or me, in the Jag. Look at us now. I want to touch you everywhere. I want to be covered in you._

Harry pulls at the back of Zayn’s hair, to bring them face-to-face once more. Zayn looks him in the eye, his cheeks flushed, his mouth plump and wet. Waiting for Harry to do something. So Harry kisses him, to give him permission to undo his jeans, touch him under his shirt, do anything. _I’ll do anything you want. I want I want I want._

But even as they kiss more urgently, their teeth knocking together, Harry’s hands in his hair and down his back, Zayn doesn’t move his hand from Harry’s stomach. He doesn’t shift them so that he’s fully on top of Harry, doesn’t push. It’s just their mouths, their tongues, like they’re a couple of horny freshmen who have never seen another person naked before.

And that just won’t do. They’ve fucking waited long enough.

When Zayn lets up for a second, to bite at Harry’s lip, to kiss his cupid’s bow, to take a breath, Harry seizes the opportunity. He presses a palm to Zayn’s chest and in no time at all, he’s switched their positions. Zayn on his back, Harry above him but on all fours, lungs heaving.

“Jack will be home soon,” Harry whispers, overwhelmed by Zayn’s hair sprawled on his pillowcase, this perfect fucking boy underneath him.

Zayn nods.

“And we’re leaving for five days tomorrow,” Harry continues, his dick pressing into the zipper of his jeans.

Zayn nods again.

Harry surges forward to kiss him, throwing his entire body down onto Zayn’s. They both groan at the same time, as their erections finally press together, covered by layers of fabric. Harry decides to save the big stuff for later, since they don’t have much time. They can’t do anything too extreme, but they can do this. They can finally fucking do this, the thing other teenagers do all the time.

They’ve spent weeks together in secret, and Harry has had countless orgasms in front of Zayn. But he knows without a doubt, that this will be the best one yet. One of Zayn’s hands in his hair, one on his hip and his back, back and forth, like Zayn can’t decide where he wants to hold on. _That’s_ what will do it. Zayn’s hands.

Harry ruts down, his knees digging into the mattress, as Zayn pushes up to meet him. It probably looks ridiculous, to be dry humping fully clothed in a little dorm bed while Harry’s neighbors play their Xbox too loudly on the other side of the wall. But they don’t focus on anything outside of their little space. This is it.

It’s all Harry can do from biting down onto Zayn’s neck, as he feels the pressure building, a crescendo, a flood of heat beneath their jeans.

“I’m gonna…” Zayn pants as he pulls back, his face a wreck.

Harry redoubles his efforts and presses down harder, his thin frame bracketed by Zayn’s hips, to get them there.

“Do it,” Harry pants in return, thumb pressing at the hollow of Zayn’s cheek.

Harry watches, transfixed, as Zayn’s eyes slam shut. He comes, a grunt passing between his teeth, and Harry swears he’s never seen or heard anything more beautiful in his whole fucking life. _I’m so glad you let me watch_ you _this time._

And then Harry follows right behind him, coming in his boxers like he’s eleven and had yet another wet dream in a fitful sleep. He fucks himself down onto Zayn, his toes curling in his socks, and gently bites at Zayn’s neck so he doesn’t make too much noise.

They breathe through the comedown, harshly into each other’s skin, without moving to clean themselves up. Harry sort of loves that they don’t move right away. He loves that instead of feeling gross about coming untouched or with his clothes on, or embarrassed like he would be if this had happened with a girl, it’s suddenly a relaxing experience. Zayn, someone who has all the same parts as Harry, knows it was too much to control. It was too much build up. They waited so long.

Eventually Zayn runs a shaking hand through the back of Harry’s hair, as a way to get Harry to move off of him. Harry hates to move, but he does. He pushes himself up so he’s on his forearms over Zayn and wipes at his mouth.

“That…” he starts, their faces close, unsure of what to say.

“Yeah,” Zayn responds to the non-question, his face red. He nods a few times like he doesn’t know what to say either.

“So do we…”

“I don’t know.”

“What do we…”

“I don’t know,” Zayn says with a confused shrug.

Harry knows they need to say something. To actually talk, since they still haven’t. _What are we? Even if it’s a secret, are we gonna keep doing this? Whatever this is? Am I your… boyfriend? Are you even into guys? Can I tell Gemma? Can we at least tell the other boys? Just our best friends?_

Zayn must read Harry’s face again, because he frowns. He brings a timid hand to Harry’s shoulder, and opens his mouth. Like he needs to set things straight, to remind Harry of what they are.

Just then, they hear a key in the door.

In three seconds flat, Zayn shoves Harry off of him hard. Harry forgot how strong Zayn can be and feels like he has whiplash, as he’s thrown back towards the wall, his shoulder blades hitting it so forcefully, he’ll probably bruise.

As Jack walks in the room, in his stupid fucking gym clothes and a pair of headphones, he doesn’t even look towards Harry’s bed. As Harry and Zayn preen and smooth their hair, adjusting collars, sitting as far as humanly possible on Harry’s bed, Jack doesn’t even acknowledge them fully. He just waves over his shoulder, to show that he knows there are other people in the room, and that he doesn’t have time for pleasantries.

They watch with bated breath as Jack walks to his closet and throws his bag down, head bopping slightly to the shitty music he works out to. They wait, to see if he’ll comment on the weirdness he walked in on. But he doesn’t, as Harry grimaces at the drying jizz in his boxers. He presses a hand down to his jeans, hoping there isn’t a visible wet spot.

“I’m gonna go,” Zayn says loudly, moving off of the bed with a ridiculous put-on nonchalance that Harry almost rolls his eyes at. Zayn is a terrible liar. “We’re leaving early tomorrow, you know. So… thanks for the weed.”

“Sure,” Harry mumbles, following him towards the door. Jack isn’t even listening, so it seems rather pointless to put on a show.

Out in the hallway, Harry is relieved to see that the other boys on his floor mostly have their doors shut. He can follow Zayn, who runs on his awkward chicken legs towards the staircase, without attracting attention or last-minute deals.

“Will you slow down?”

“Shut up, Harry,” Zayn hisses over his shoulder.

When they reach the stairwell, Harry grabs his wrist before he can get farther than three steps above him. He won’t let this be like the Jag, when Zayn was nothing more than a willing spectator. _You’re in this now. You stayed, you watched, you touched me._

“Are you mad?” Harry says quietly, eyes searching.

_I know it’s a secret, but please don’t regret it. Don’t ruin it. Not now._

Zayn turns to him, face still as red as it was in Harry’s room. He grabs for the hair over his forehead and tugs at it, like he does when he’s anxious.

“I’m not mad, I’m just…” Zayn starts, frustrated.

Harry follows Zayn up the steps and slides his hand down from Zayn’s wrist, to link their fingers together. He figures it’s safe, in the stairwell, away from anyone who may come into the hall to head towards the shared bathroom.

Zayn doesn’t let Harry go, and even squeezes his fingers a bit. That simple gesture gives Harry his pulse back. He exhales, relieved.

“I get it,” Harry says, because he does. Zayn didn’t regret what just happened. He just regretted almost getting caught. So Harry tucks a piece of hair behind Zayn’s ear, to show some tenderness. Zayn’s face turns red as he looks down at his shoes.

“That was really close,” Zayn whispers, stepping into Harry’s space. “That… we can’t let anyone see. No one can know.”

“I know,” Harry says, because he does.

“I’m not… I told you, we can’t talk about it, we can’t say it. It’s just… this is what it is, just…”

Zayn gets lost in his sentence, brow furrowed.

So Harry squeezes his hand and nods. He does that thing Gemma used to do when he was upset: makes eye contact to wordlessly say _I understand you, I am here for you, you aren’t wrong for how you feel._ He almost grabs Zayn for a hug, to hold him close, or to kiss him, but… that would be pushing it. They are painfully In Public and Harry needs to show Zayn that he understands the boundary.

He applies another squeeze to Zayn’s fingers.

“I won’t tell anyone. No one has to know. This – we’ll just do whatever we want to do, and we won’t label it as anything. And we’ll... be careful. From now on.”

_That’s what you want, right? To keep doing this? I don’t think I can be in the same room as you and not think about what we just did._

“Okay,” Zayn agrees. Relieved. Shoulders not as tense.

Harry smiles at him.

“Go clean up,” Harry whispers with a wink, jutting his chin towards Zayn’s dick. “See you in a few days.”

“You’re disgusting,” Zayn says, shoving at Harry’s face as he makes his way further up the stairs.

Harry doesn’t refute that statement, because yes, he is pretty disgusting. Laughing, they part ways and head to their separate floors. Harry feels like he weighs a ton, with how heavy his mind and thoughts are, and also as light as a feather, practically floating to the bathroom to clean up the mess in his pants. He feels like a ball of surging energy, like a little comet propelling through space. Made of gas, or whatever comets are made of, bouncing on his feet. Because it actually fucking happened, the thing he’d been dreaming about for weeks on end.

Ever since their wrists touched in the woods and something ignited in Harry’s stomach.

It’s not until Harry is back in his room, shirtless, and randomly throwing clothing into a bag with a stupid smile on his face, that he realizes Jack still hasn’t said anything. Even on days when they’re annoyed with each other, or not particularly thrilled to be living five feet away from another student, they’re at least cordial. Jack will still ask Harry if his classes are going well, if he has any more essays to write, if Harry ended up with a better grade than him in Chem.

When Harry comes to and realizes how quiet the room actually is, he turns around to find Jack staring at him from his desk, arms crossed, towel in hand.

Calculating. Assessing. Unblinking.

Harry swallows the spit suddenly collected in his mouth, because he knows.

“It smells like jizz in here,” Jack says simply.

Harry’s eye twitches.

“I told you the first day that I didn’t want to see anything,” Jack says, standing up to head towards the door. “If I don’t see it, I don’t have to lie about it. Right?”

Harry’s eye twitches a second time, the muscle jumping without his say so, as he begins to sweat along his hairline.

He opens his mouth to respond, to lie, to cover for what happened. But it’s no use. Jack fucking Darcy gives him one last blank look and then he’s out the door, headed towards the showers.

Harry has to sit down on his bed because suddenly he doesn’t think he can hold himself up.

Jack knows.

 

***

 


	3. "How does it feel?"

That Sunday, they’re hit with one of the worst snowstorms the school has seen in recent years. It happens after sun down, as it always seems to. The snow falls quickly enough to blanket the entirety of campus before classes start up again the next morning, when the F.M. students will have to trudge their way through a few feet of crisp snow to get from building to building, their fingers practically freezing off even inside their gloves. The snow won’t look as beautiful as it does right then, falling from the sky like diamonds outside of the window of his little oasis in the dorms.

It feels like another sign for Harry, as he looks out at the blizzarding sky from Louis and Zayn’s room, that change is in the air. It’s as he spots the Jag, on its way to being completely covered by a few feet of snow, that he thinks it: it’s a lot like how he felt when the leaves first changed color, how the world seemed to be morphing before his very eyes. Except this time, it’s like the sky is falling as they all run for cover behind closed doors, next to space heaters and candles that smell like pine needles.

The new season upon them means change. It means Harry must adapt to it, even when he’s so terrible at the unknown. He has to be ready. He steadies himself with his hands on his hips and everything, as he stares out of the darkened window and tries not to make eye contact with his reflection. He’s not sure what sort of expression he’d see, and that worries him. It all worries him.

Even though he hates to admit it, he worries that Zayn will have come to his senses over the short break. Somehow he may have decided sneaking around with Harry wasn’t worth it after all, that if they were almost caught by Jack the very first time, what would stop them from getting caught every time after? He could make the concrete decision that whatever they started wouldn’t have a finish. He could look at the snow covered Jag and frown, could leave Harry out in the cold entirely.

Harry swallows the bile in his throat, at the thought of Jack, at the thought of Zayn overlooking him when he finally gets into the room.

He swallows it all down.

After waiting in silence for about a thousand years, Harry turns towards the door as the handle jiggles. They’re back from Louis’s place, the both of them fumbling into the room with bags of various sizes. Louis shakes the snow out of his hair, blocking the view of the person Harry needs to see more than he’s ever needed to see anyone. Harry’s face must be unreadable because Louis barrels on like everything’s fine, like Harry seems normal.

“Look who decided to break in!” Louis says with a laugh, tossing his stuff towards his bed.

Harry’s always been good at picking locks.

“Thought I’d be here to welcome you home,” he responds lightly, even as he stuffs his hands into his pockets and leans back to sit on the heater below the window. It’s officially too hot in the room; he’s started to sweat. Or maybe it’s just nerves, at how he can’t believe he’s about to see Zayn again after what they did in his bed.

Zayn comes in behind Louis, his sweater and coat covered in a dusting of snow. He even has damp eyelashes from it, his hair slightly wilted under his hat, and it’s the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen. Zayn in head to toe Gucci, the black boots Harry’s always envied, another tattoo to his clavicle and a brand new nose ring.

They lock eyes as Zayn too tosses his shit towards his bed, his tattoo kit making a distinct thump near the bedpost, and Harry can’t read him. There’s something behind Zayn’s eyes, a warning, maybe. Fear. _Does Jack know? Did we get caught?_

Harry, annoyed at not thinking it through beforehand, suddenly knows what to do to diffuse the situation, to make the interaction seem normal. He looks away from Zayn to instead give Louis a massive hug, where he whispers about the new strain of weed Gemma gave him. And then he takes a breath as he goes for Zayn, to hold him like he has ever since they met, when their hugs were only platonic and easygoing.

They step together and wrap their arms around each other timidly, Harry’s nose buried in Zayn’s neck without even a thought. He inhales and hopes Louis doesn’t hear it, the way he needs to smell Zayn up close, to feel the heat from his skin on his mouth.

Harry’s also a good liar when he needs to be, so he gets it over with.

“We’re okay,” Harry breathes the words as quietly as he can. “He doesn’t know.”

Zayn nods into his shoulder and says so much without saying anything at all, _thank god Jack didn’t say anything when you went back to your room, thank god he didn’t notice, no one can know._

Harry squeezes him a final time, his hands already missing the feel of Zayn’s back, and then steps away. Because as he’s learned over the years at F.M., after all that Gemma has taught him, secrets are necessary. Secrets keep you safe. And if Zayn wants to feel safe and think Jack is in the dark, then so be it. Harry will give him that. Jack’s eyes told Harry he didn’t plan on saying anything to anyone, that just like with the drugs, he wouldn’t say a word if he didn’t have to.

Harry’s been holding onto that look for days.

Soon after, Liam and Niall bound into the room to catch up as well. It’s a mess of hugs and laughter, Louis hitting them all in the nuts just because he can, and Harry’s quiet admission about how he wants another tattoo. He figures if they’re too snowed in to go out to the Jag and he won’t have alone time with Zayn until God only knows when, it’s really his only choice to get close.

They lock eyes again, Harry asking silently _is it okay?_

Zayn sniffs and looks away. But he also nods.

So a few minutes later, the tattoo gun comes out and buzzes loudly. Harry peers down at his chest as Zayn gets to work.

For some reason over break, between coffee with Gemma and her friends and an almost-silent Thanksgiving dinner with his mother, Harry really did have the idea that he wanted to get tattooed again. He could practically see it: two small swallows on his chest facing inward, not completely identical, but mirroring each other. And now that he looks down and sees the stencil drawings Zayn created for them, the way he uses the tattoo gun to stroke across his skin, he knows it was the right choice.

Zayn concentrates hard behind his glasses, his gloved hands pressing just hard enough into Harry’s skin to make pink marks here and there. He still hasn’t said much and Harry is too terrified to bring anything up. _Do you regret it? Do you regret me? I know we can’t tell, but you seemed so into it. We both did._

Zayn still won’t look up at Harry, just shifts his body so that his left hand presses at Harry’s pec. To get Harry to shift to a good angle for the right bird’s wing. Harry has to bite his lip like the last time, having Zayn so close to him. Even without speaking, with being on unsteady ground and the other boys being in the room, Harry swears it’s just the two of them in their own world.

As if to prove him right and settle his nerves all at once, Zayn glances over his shoulder to make sure the boys are invested in their late night Final Fantasy game. He then faces Harry, scrunches his nose to push his glasses up into place, and quickly places a heated kiss below Harry’s right nipple. He moves away in the blink of an eye, his eyes slightly wide at being so brave and brazen. But it’s like he knew what to do, that Harry needed it, to say that he’s grateful and happy for Harry’s continued silence.

Harry wants to grab Zayn’s hand so badly, to place a kiss in his palm, he has to physically stop himself by tucking his hands under his head. He smiles up at the ceiling and knows Zayn can see his expression.

They both know this is all they have for the foreseeable future, a few stolen moments in silence when no one’s looking. Two boys who can’t talk about it, can’t say it, can barely think it. So Harry double-checks again that the boys aren’t looking and moves his leg so that it rests against Zayn’s arm, just to touch now that he’s allowed to. Zayn leans into it and Harry very nearly cries. It’s a nice change.

Their moment is broken when Liam bounces his way over to them, high as a kite on Harry’s drugs yet again, and demands to be next. He wants hieroglyphics on the inside of his forearm, thank you very much.

Harry’s pretty sure he’ll feel the hot press of Zayn’s mouth on his chest for the rest of his goddamn life.

 

***

 

Secrets can be delicious.

That’s what Harry thinks about most days, when he has to keep his hands to himself and stop his eyes from wandering up and down Zayn’s body at any given moment. It’s just like with the drugs he sells: the deception is the best part. It’s hiding his thoughts and emotions behind unblinking eyes, no one the wiser of what he’s really thinking about. It could be his chemistry notes or maybe his numbers, which have increased to an insane amount because of finals coming up and have kept him beyond busy. But no one knows that what Harry most thinks about is the curve of Zayn’s jaw or the patch of skin just beneath his left ear where he has a small freckle. When Harry’s eyes drift off in class and he can’t pay attention, all he sees is Zayn’s face when he comes, the sound he makes, the marks his teeth make into his bottom lip.

Zayn Malik is like a drug himself, like Harry has a real, tangible need to get a hit. It’s like Zayn is the newest pill in Harry’s arsenal, something Gemma would warn him about, “not too much, not too fast.” But Harry knows he wouldn’t listen regardless; it’s the best rush there is.

For the next week, they don’t touch much. Harry knows better, knows it’s the time Zayn needs to settle something within himself. So it’s mostly just staring and quick looks here and there in class and in Liam and Niall’s room. It’s sitting next to each other at dinner, their feet so close and yet so far away, their wrists almost connecting just like that first time in the woods. Harry knows he has to be careful, that he can’t do what he really wants to do with Zayn. He can’t hold Zayn by the shoulder, or hug him, or even ruffle his hair like he normally would. Because it’s like Zayn also knows that if they touch, they’re done for. They’d have about thirty seconds to get away, to touch and touch and touch, until Harry had Zayn on his back again.

So they keep to themselves and stare at each other across rooms until it feels so visceral, so real, Harry feels it like a knife to the heart each and every time. Maybe that can be delicious too, he thinks. The buildup and eagerness, the time in between hooking up. Anticipation.

Just when Harry feels like it’s too much, that if Zayn looks at him one more time with heat in his eyes Harry will combust, Zayn makes the first move.

It’s as the boys, Danielle, Julie and Ruth file out of Harry’s room one night after studying. Zayn makes it so that he’s the last one to leave, his books and laptop in his arms, his glasses slipping down his nose. Harry thinks they’ll smile and maybe brush arms as he passes, the sort of thing he’s come to expect from Zayn these days. _Not here, not now._

Maybe Zayn feels brave, maybe he remembers what they did in Harry’s bed and can’t control the way his body moves when next to Harry’s. As Harry holds the door for him and places his hand on Zayn’s lower back, Zayn glances out to the hall just to check. And then he leans close to Harry and kisses him. It’s a simple kiss, like the one he placed on Harry’s chest, but with a hint of tongue. Harry inhales as it happens, his lungs too surprised at the interaction. They lock eyes after, Zayn's face flushed red like he’s nervous. And then he’s gone.

Harry has about ten minutes before Jack is due back in the room, so he quickly shuts the door and shoves his hand down his pants.

 

***

“You seem distracted,” Niall intones one morning as Harry slides into a seat next to him in the dining hall.

Harry can’t exactly argue with that, seeing as how he just had a customer say the exact same thing about three minutes prior. Sebastian Vaughn, one of Harry’s tried and true regulars, had to wave his hand in front of Harry’s face to make sure he got correct change for the handful of joints Harry brought over. Gemma is going to kill him if his numbers don’t add up, especially during their busy time. He also had two unanswered texts from his father on his phone, probably disappointed or pissed about his midterm scores. But that can always wait.

“A lot on my mind, right?” Harry lies, gesturing to his bag of homework that he barely completed the night before.

Niall narrows his eyes and doesn’t say anything.

Harry feels the heat creep up his back and settle over his neck, so he rubs a hand at it and steals a potato from Niall’s plate.

Just then Liam and Louis join them, bickering over something Harry can’t care to pay attention to. Because Zayn isn’t with them. And if Zayn isn’t close by, Harry isn’t sure he even recognizes his surroundings anymore. That can’t be healthy. He had a plan set for the next time he’d see Zayn, something to show Zayn that he can be brave too. He wants to prove to Zayn that he can be quiet, can keep the secret, even if they start putting it out into the world. He was going to hold his hand under the table, easy as anything, and Zayn would see that it’s okay.

“Where’s Zayn?” Harry hears himself ask, the pleading in his voice evident.

No one pays his tone any attention, thank god.

“Our room,” Louis shrugs. “Said he needed to read something before class.”

Harry blinks.

_Fuck holding hands._

Harry is up and out of seat not even thirty seconds later, with the excuse of needing to hit up the sophomore dorms before classes start. He really does have a new strain of weed that is sure to be a hit.

Harry takes the length from the dining hall to Zayn’s at a quick run, his boots skidding here and there from the puddles of melted snow near every doorway. It’s just too much buildup, too much goddamn foreplay with just their eyes. He can’t stand it. He needs to get Zayn between his palms, have his face in his hair, anything. Everything.

He knocks on Zayn’s door a little too roughly for it to be anyone else. And maybe Zayn expects him, maybe he had a plan of his own design. He lets Harry in and then lets himself get thrown onto his bed by Harry’s big hands.

“Hello to you too,” he mumbles around Harry’s mouth, smiling into it.

“Missed you,” Harry says into the space between Zayn’s neck and shoulder, his tongue flicking out to get a taste over and over. _A boy, this boy._ “Missed you so much.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks timidly, his hands running up Harry's back.

“Yeah,” Harry nods into a kiss as he snakes his hand down Zayn’s chest towards his belt buckle.

But Zayn’s quick and keeps it from traveling too much more south. He knows they have class to get to, teachers to impress, tests to take. He knows they barely have a few minutes there alone in the dorm, for the first time since Harry’s bed, and they need to wait a little longer.

“Easy,” he whispers, gripping Harry’s hand in his own. “Easy, easy.”

But it’s hard for Harry to stop grinding down onto Zayn’s dick, to stop kissing Zayn, grabbing for his hair, biting his lip. _It’s too hard, it’s too much._ Zayn, despite himself, pushes back, groans at Harry’s hands in his hair, bites Harry in return. Two boys on a tiny twin bed yet again, rubbing one out before anyone can interrupt.

“Got a surprise for you,” Zayn says breathlessly, mouth up at Harry’s ear.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me,” Harry huffs, leaning back so they’re eye to eye.

“You’ll see. Be patient,” Zayn says as he licks at his puffy bottom lip.

Harry growls at that and then goes back to kissing Zayn’s neck, smelling his cologne, pulling at the lapels of his uniform just to be at tease.

Even in the midst of their brief hook up, Harry can’t help but wonder how it’ll be ruined. Who will walk in, who will call his phone looking for a dime. There’s always a Jack there to wreck the moment. Then the thought of Jack and the secret have Harry’s stomach turning, so he kisses harder and waits for the inevitable intrusion.

But no one walks in, no one interrupts. Zayn and Harry have those few blissful minutes to themselves, to revel in the feeling of a boy in their grasp and a mouth willing to be ravaged. They don’t stop until they hear the warning bell from far off buildings, signally class in eight minutes.

And when Harry tries to move off of Zayn, his annoyed huff ringing around them, Zayn’s the one to pull him back down by the lapels and kiss him again.

“One more minute,” Zayn says as he scrunches his nose and pecks at Harry’s mouth.

“Two,” Harry challenges.

They’re both late to class.

 

***

 

At around one a.m. one night, Harry leans his hands against the tile in the shower. He’s there in his own little stall in the far off corner on his floor, since it’s his favorite. He lets the water rush through his unruly hair and down his aching back, the muscles he’s been working on with Liam screaming at him. It might be because he has a certain someone to impress these days, or because he was so stressed over finals, but Harry finds himself wanting to be sturdier. Not just a runner, not just a casual weight lifter when Liam feels like it, but someone who has a quiet strength to him.

So far, Liam has been running him into the ground. Liam, so afraid of impending doom in the form of classes and acceptance letters, decided to make Harry his project. In exchange for even more coke than usual, Liam has been Harry’s own personal drill sergeant.

The water streams down Harry’s body as he turns his head from side to side, careful not to get any in his ears. He closes his eyes and relaxes. He tries to focus on something other than Zayn Malik and the way he looks from the back as he walks to and from classes. How he tried to touch Zayn with just a finger once and Zayn recoiled from it completely and texted a girl instead. But now Zayn kisses him, lets Harry touch him, keeps him on edge for a surprise soon. They’re a thing, a real thing, and it still sometimes knocks Harry upside the head, the thought that he would be willing to do _anything_ for Zayn Malik, if he asked.

_My thoughts create my world._

Harry shakes his head, and inhales and exhales deeply, hoping the steam opens his pores and allows his skin to purge a bit. He has another paper to write for English, as well as the chemistry flash cards Niall made for him to study, since he’s “worried” Harry is falling behind. And he has about six customers to attend to right when the sun comes up.

Just then, Harry senses movement over his shoulder. Someone entering the shower. He whirls around too quickly, his bare ass hits the tiled wall as he shakes his hair out of his eyes.

It’s Zayn peeking through the checkered curtain, glancing over his shoulder about eighteen times, before he steps into the fucking stall alongside Harry. Naked. A naked Zayn in the shower with him.

Harry’s jaw hits the floor.

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just closes his eyes at first, to breathe. Harry lets him, still too shocked to move. And then Zayn opens his eyes, looks right at him with a stern, set expression.

They’re naked together for the first time, Harry’s first time ever seeing a boy naked up close that isn’t in a shitty locker room or communal gym shower. And he still can’t pick up his jaw. He looks Zayn up and down from head to toe, just as Zayn does to him, like he’s shocked at his own actions. And suddenly Harry has hands on his wet hips.

Zayn’s beautiful, strong hands wind their way around Harry’s midsection until they’re flush up against each other. Their dicks slide together, the water so loud in Harry’s ears, he barely hears Zayn’s inhale of breath.

Harry kisses him hard and fast, his fingers at the nape of Zayn’s neck. He can’t believe that _this_ is the amazing fucking surprise. Zayn groans into his mouth, his hands tightening on Harry’s hips until it hurts, like he’s saying _I told you we should wait, look how good this is, our secret is still safe._ It isn’t until Zayn starts moving that Harry understands what’s about to happen. Another round of rubbing off together, a joint mission to get off as quickly as possible.

But it’s so late and there isn’t anyone else in the row of shower stalls. It’s just them, just Zayn and Harry touching and kissing like they should’ve been doing all along. Harry doesn’t want it to be quick, doesn’t want it to be hurried and rushed because Zayn is scared. He doesn’t want Zayn to be scared at all, ever, especially not with him.

Harry pulls back slightly so he can look at Zayn up close. Damp eyelashes again, droplets of water gliding down his face made of fucking marble, his stark black tattoos standing out against caramel skin. Even his fucking knees are beautiful.

Zayn tries to crowd against him once more so they can rub off on one another, but Harry stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Slow, yeah?” he says as his mouth curls into a smile, a callback to when Zayn told him to slow his hand down in the Jag.

Zayn must remember because his cheeks flare red and he smiles down towards their feet. Harry tilts his face back up so they can lazily kiss, smile into each other’s mouths, bite and taste. Harry runs his hands up and down Zayn’s torso, his back, even down to his ass, as Zayn does the same to Harry. It’s fucking perfect, Zayn is perfect, _a boy, my boy._

In one of his braver moments thus far, Harry holds Zayn around the neck with one arm as he slowly brings the other hand down to Zayn’s perfect erection. Harry holds it in his hand for the first time, reveling in the fact that they’re about the same size, because his brain already knows what to do. _We’re built the same, we’re the same, I can touch you just like this._

Zayn groans and throws his head back, overwhelmed at the sensation of another hand on him. Overwhelmed by the fact that he’s with a boy. They’re both far from virgins, but it’s different this time. Harry can feel that it’s different, the way Zayn bucks up into his hand and kisses his neck at the same time. Like he wants to keep quiet and contained, but just can’t seem to get a handle on it.

“How does it feel?” Harry can’t help but whisper, his eyes wide and pleading as he strokes him up and down. His eyes bounce from Zayn’s closed eyes, to the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks, down to his perfect mouth.

Zayn doesn’t answer at first, too fucked up, but eventually he croaks out, “S’good, babe. It’s – good.”

_Babe._

_Babe babe babe._

Harry almost nuts off onto Zayn’s hip from the word alone, just like in the Jag when Zayn’s voice sent him off a cliff’s edge. But he can’t, they have to do it at the same time. So when Zayn throws one of his hands up to the wall to keep himself steady and upright, Harry shifts them so that he can take both of their dicks in his hand at the same time. They both hiss at it, still aware that they have to be quiet even amongst the loud flowing water above them. And then Harry jerks them off rough and fast, no longer able to wait. They have to come together, to come all over each other, to make it good for their first time as two naked boys together.

_We have a thing. We’re doing something. We’re something._

Zayn gets his wits about him once more, his forehead drops to Harry’s shoulder as Harry continues to stroke them through it. He inhales and says, “We… we have to hurry before someone hears. Before… someone – calls Wallace.”

Harry’s eyes almost cross hearing Zayn’s voice in such a heated moment.

“I’m there, babe,” Harry huffs, _babe babe babe._

“Me too.”

“Fuck,” Harry says with clenched teeth as he spills over his hand in thick stripes.

It’s as he’s pulsing and forcing more come out that Zayn follows, his teeth making a mark in Harry’s shoulder. He practically cries with it, as Harry feels the warm come trickle next to his own and down Zayn’s hip. It’s fucking filthy, disgusting, to have both of their come all over his fingers, and yet a random part of Harry’s brain almost says _I should lick it off._

He doesn’t, because before he can think about it any further, Zayn’s moving them so they’re standing directly under the water stream once more. He grabs for Harry’s body wash and stretches his arms up a bit and turns, the water getting rid of their jizz. Harry finds his jaw can’t quite move yet again, as he watches Zayn clean himself off with those fucking perfect hands of his.

Zayn smiles like he’s embarrassed, holds out the body wash, and gestures for Harry to do the same. So Harry does, he holds his messy hand under the water and then washes down his body just as Zayn did, but with a bit more of a tease. He turns all the way around and washes his ass with both hands so that it bounces a bit. He feels Zayn kiss his shoulder and Harry almost leans back so that they can go for round two.

But the kiss is a goodbye kiss, Harry knows that for sure when Zayn turns him around so they’re face to face. He smiles, bites his lip, and then exits the shower stall in search for his towel. Harry wonders what excuse he’ll use with Louis.

It feels like a fever dream, like something Harry concocted in his head during an afternoon daydream session while in class. It doesn’t feel like real life, doesn’t feel like he even deserves it at all.

Zayn will be the death of Harry, he’s sure of it.

 

***

 

December moves pretty fast, much faster than Harry would like. It’s the same every year, when it comes to midyear finals: students freaking out in the dorms, the library, and the science labs. It’s a school full of zombies hell bent on getting As for their parents and step-parents alike. They flock to Harry like moths to a flame, so sad and upset at their impending scores. Crazed from no sleep, a freshmen girl is the first to have a semi-nervous breakdown just outside the dining hall one morning, when she realizes she has mismatched socks on. Mr. Domingo is the first teacher on the scene, sadly. He has about as much tact as a fucking four-year-old.

But for some reason, this year Harry’s orders go from heavy to the heaviest he’s ever seen. Gemma has to make a special trip to see him one weekend, to bring him more Vyvanse and weed pre-rolled by the good guy in SoHo. He actually has a moment where he thinks he’s going to sell out of Adderall, practically in tears about to call Gemma for help, when he discovers another pack in the hiding space under his bed. Maybe somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he’d need it.

Zayn knows to keep his distance somewhat, when Harry goes especially mad over his work. They all see Harry trying to juggle his business and studying, the way he begins to redo his sock drawer according to color and then by occasion at least six times over the course of a study session. And even Louis leaves him alone.

The night before their second to last day of finals, the boys congregate in Harry’s room since Jack will more than likely pass out under a table in the library. He thinks the more face time he shows in the library or study lounges, the better off he’ll look to teachers. _What a twat._

As Niall rambles off random French past participles, Harry organizes his shirt closet according to arm length. First the tank tops, then the shorter sleeves, then the long sleeve button ups and jackets. He can feel his eye twitching the more Niall drones on, the more he can’t concentrate because Zayn is so close by and smells so amazing. And above all else, he has at least eight people stopping by the room in intervals of fifteen minutes, to get their poisons of choice.

Finally Niall stops reading from his book.

“Harry, would you like to join us?” he asks with a sigh.

“No,” Harry intones, the hangers screeching across the bar at the top of his closet. “I do not.”

“You’re gonna kick yourself for this later,” Liam tries from Jack’s desk, his eyes bugged out and bloodshot. “I’m telling you, the more you try to pretend like you don’t have tests tomorrow, the worst it gets. Like my sister used to say, you just – ”

Louis holds up his hand from where he sits on the floor next to Zayn.

“We get it, Liam. You know everything about everything when you’re high. Thank you for that,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Harold, please come sit down like a good boy and learn your French.”

But then there’s a knock at the door and it’s Reed Vickers, who barely ever buys from Harry unless it’s absolutely necessary. He steps inside and whispers about his math class and how his step-dad will kill him if he doesn’t ace his final, but Harry barely hears a word of it. It’s a quick transaction and then he’s gone.

Harry goes back to his closet and starts on the buttons of his school shirts, to make sure they lay flat and look as pressed as possible, just like how his second-favorite maid taught him.

He feels a hand come up to his hip and squeeze, which has him closing his eyes and exhaling a long breath. All at once, Harry’s body releases the tension he’s been holding in his sore shoulders.

“You need to relax, babe,” Zayn whispers, their faces close. “You need to chill out, and come study.”

Harry almost falls into him. He wants to wrap his arms around Zayn and never let go, keep him so close that they form into one singular being. One person, eight limbs, two brains. He wants to tell Zayn that he doesn’t give a shit about school, that they all collectively never used to care this much. He wants Zayn to tell him to stop selling so hard, to not take it so seriously, fuck whatever Gemma needs. He wants Zayn to kiss him in front of the boys, just because they shouldn’t be afraid anymore.

But then Louis makes a sound over Zayn’s shoulder and the moment is lost. Zayn quickly steps away from Harry, his eyes wide at what they just did. They’re too close to other people, they’re not alone and safe. Harry can’t help but frown. _I’d really like to be gay now, for real._

“Harry,” Louis says again, his voice firmer. Harsh. “Come sit down and open a fucking book.”

Harry blinks at Zayn, who has now wordlessly drifted to Harry’s desk to sit down. He looks down at his hands and Harry knows for certain his mind is running a mile a minute, wondering if Louis has started to catch on, if the boys heard how tender his voice sounded when directed at Harry. So Harry knows to diffuse the tension and get Zayn’s mind off of things. To save the day.

“Lewis,” he nods with a straight face, “you are right.”

He sits down next to Louis and Niall on the floor and reaches for his Sociology book, even though he already had his Soc quiz the day before. No one notices. They especially don’t notice when Harry reaches for his coke and starts cutting lines on the book’s front cover, just for something to do with his hands.

Niall declines it. Louis sighs at it, but still does a bump. And Liam practically kicks Niall in the face he scrambles to get to Harry so fast. He does two quick lines from the book, swipes the residue on his top gums, kisses Harry’s cheek, and then goes back to his chicken-scratch notes at Jack’s desk.

“Zayn?” Harry offers the book up on both hands towards Zayn at his own desk, presented like Zayn is the king and Harry is but a lowly servant.

Zayn shakes his head and twirls with the hoop in his nose, a new tick he’s picked up for when he’s anxious.

_Save the day. Be the distraction._

“I don’t know why you’re all so freaked out,” Harry says with a slight shrug, before inhaling the last line with his standard rolled up fifty. “We already sent our applications. We’re practically in.”

Niall guffaws at that, while Liam laughs and Louis and Zayn frown.

“They check this shit, Haz,” Louis says like Harry had just insulted his mother. “The Ivys don’t want morons who slack off their entire senior year. They’ll know.”

“It’s important to care,” Zayn says quietly to himself, still staring at his hands instead of the notes in front of him.

Harry shrugs it off.

“Let’s talk about Christmas,” Harry changes the subject, still trying to keep all eyes on him instead of on Zayn and what happened next to his closet. “Where are we all going?”

“Vale,” Niall says, still frowning, finally noticing what book Harry has been holding and not reading.

“Home to Maine,” Liam says with a brisk nod, his words crashing together from the high. “My stepmom says it’s important all of us kids are in the same place, for my dad’s sake. I guess he misses having us all together, which is ridiculous, because when my mom – ”

Liam stops speaking and blinks rapidly to get some moisture back in his dry eye sockets. Whenever he accidentally starts to speak about his deceased mom, he usually goes quiet pretty fast. Niall presses his bare foot to Liam’s ankle, a sign that they all get it and don’t have to keep talking about Christmas, so Liam nods.

But Harry isn’t always the best with social cues, especially when he’s fucked up.

“I’ll be in New York. The usual. My dad will barely speak to me and my mom will probably just fawn over Gem the whole time. The more Gemma hates her, the clingier she gets.” He shrugs again. “What about you two?”

Harry gestures to Zayn and Louis.

They exchange a quick glance.

“Zayn’s coming home with me again. Jersey,” Louis says lightly to Harry, since Niall and Liam had stopped paying attention after Liam went quiet.

Harry narrows his eyes. It’s not like he should be surprised, but he is. Zayn still won’t tell him what’s happening with his family. Harry can keep secrets from people just fine, but he doesn’t like to be left out of them.

“Oh,” he says as he disposes of his book and crosses his arms.

“My family,” Zayn says as he clears his throat. “They’re all flying to Greece for the holidays and I didn’t feel like making the trip.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Zayn frowns at Harry, willing him to shut his mouth and not make it weird. “So. That’s where I’ll be.”

Harry almost offers it right then and there, for Zayn to come to New York with him instead. How they could roam the city with Gemma and her friends, get drunk in Brooklyn to piss off Des, party it up with the New York elite while their parents get buzzed in Harry’s parents’ ballroom. They could go for walks in Central Park, eat dinner at Harry’s favorite place on the Upper West Side, get nuts from one of those cheap street food stands his mother absolutely loathes. They’d have an amazing time. New York during Christmas time is a sight to behold, even when it’s just two boys who are friends and nothing more, according to the lie they tell.

But when Harry locks eyes with Zayn, he knows it’s too soon after the interaction at the closet. And that Zayn is still worried over what Louis could say. He touched Harry, he whispered something in his ear. He tenderly went to help Harry when he could see the impending spiral. One of the boys could’ve easily noticed it being… more than just friends.

So Harry keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t mention New York.

He keeps his mouth shut for the next two hours and the all pretend not to notice.

 

***

 

Zayn is the last one to leave Harry’s room that night, with only a few minutes to spare until Jack could be back. He stuffs his shit into his bag and steps to Harry to link their fingers together. Zayn always knows what Harry needs to not only settle his body, but settle his mind. _We’re still doing this, even though we still can’t show the boys. We’ll be careful next time._

Harry can’t keep his mouth shut anymore. But instead of asking Zayn about his secret and why he can’t go home, he asks the other question on his mind. The one that could change their entire dynamic.

“You should come to New York with me,” he says quietly, not letting Zayn’s hand go. “We could… do whatever we want there.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I already told Louis I’d go home with him. The twins made me a stocking,” Zayn says with a small smile.

Harry nods. _I hate that I have to be away from you for so long. What if you change your mind, what if we cool off and it’s over…_

He wishes he could lean in to kiss Zayn goodnight. Something to remember him by, if that’s all they have before they all leave for break in two days. But the door to the hallway is still open and anyone could walk by. So he nudges Zayn’s chin with his nose and leads him to the door.

“Night,” Harry says as he leans on the doorframe, finally coming down from the coke. He’s about to crash.

“Night, babe,” Zayn responds with a whisper, and then he’s gone.

 

***

 

Without even a word, Jack fucking Darcy makes it known to Harry that after the party to celebrate their upcoming Christmas break, Harry won’t be welcome back in their room. It’s like he knows before Harry does that Harry is on his way to getting absolutely obliterated with the partying seniors. They lock eyes and Harry has to keep himself from blinking, to say that yes he understands, and that yes Jack is a fucking dick.

They still haven’t spoken much since Jack caught on to what Zayn had been doing in their room that day. As always, it’s clear from Jack’s demeanor that he wants absolutely nothing to do with Harry and his problems.

It doesn’t stop the clawing feeling in Harry’s stomach sometimes, when he looks at Zayn from across a room and remembers the other secret he’s keeping. Zayn thinks they’re completely in the clear, and yet Harry knows Jack could blow up their entire dynamic if he simply felt like it.

As he meticulously gets ready, Harry makes sure to present himself as the best version of Harry Styles. He needs his classmates and customers to see a confident Harry and trust that he did all he could to get them through finals. He sold them pills to keep them awake, pills to finally put them to sleep, and enough kush that he’s pretty sure the entire junior dorm still smells like a skunk. He did his job, so he hopes it worked. He hopes his friends all passed and got the scores they needed. Harry certainly didn’t, or at least barely. That’ll be a fun conversation with his dad.

It’s all about the presentation. So he puts on his black skinny jeans and a white Marc Jacobs shirt with motorcycles on it. He slicks his hair somewhat, even puts on a special serum and moisturizer combo Gemma’s friend Alice once gave him. He looks good, healthy and strong, like nothing in the world could touch him.

Except for Zayn Malik.

The party in the pool house is in full swing by the time Harry arrives fashionably late with his Tom Ford duffle. The seniors, all done with their finals and ready to get rowdy, actually cheer for him. He notices immediately that Mo Voorhees and her friends are already high on something, maybe leftovers from what he sold them the last time. Liam’s fucked up from coke talking to Julie Hathaway, Niall and Ruth are drunk on whiskey, and Louis stumbles into Danielle as they both take hits from a shared joint.

Which of course leaves Zayn, far off on the bleachers talking to Amy DiSante and her roommate Mallory. The three of them pass a bottle of rum back and forth. Zayn’s laughter can be heard from all the way over near the front doors, as Mallory stands there like an awkward third wheel. Someone pulls on Harry’s arm then, to get his attention, so he reluctantly tears his eyes away.

“What do you have for us?” Mackenzie Highdecker asks him sweetly, her eyelashes fluttering only a few inches from his face.

“Oh babe,” he says with a sly smile, turning into the best salesman the school has ever seen, “do I have a treat for you.”

Harry then puts on a show and hands out new molly tablets as a group forms around him where he sits on the lowest diving board in the deep end. Gemma told him that it was laced with something sick, something so good that it made the high last longer, made you feel like you were flying. So that’s how he sells it. _You’ll be as high as the moon, you won’t want to come down, you’ll love it, I promise._

Various classmates start handing over fifties and hundreds, not even asking for change since they all know they don’t need it. They know Harry will pay them back in other ways, just like he always does. Harry never forgets to pay back.

“Harry, take some with us,” one of them says, pulling on his arm again so that he almost drops his foot down into the water.

But Harry just touches his nose with his pointer finger and winks, lets them know he’s already on the up and up. Customers love when Harry indulges in his own drugs. They love knowing he’s part of the team.

No one comes to find him after that. As the crowd disperses and they all begin to take what he’s sold them, his friends don’t playfully push him around, slap at his dick, or wonder if he needs a drink. They’re all too busy it seems. Harry looks around the pool house and sniffs, the coke stuck at the back of his throat, and can’t figure out what to do with himself.

He thinks back to Jack and the look he gave him as he was getting ready. The look that said _you’re sleeping somewhere else_ , and realizes Jack might be a mind reader. So he reaches into his bag for his smaller bong, the one with the dragon on the side of it. He takes several big hits in a row, blows the smoke up over his head, and then lays back on the diving board to stare up at the ceiling. 

When it comes to weed, Harry takes his time getting high, lets himself drift just enough that his thoughts wander helplessly. It’s not like some of his other drugs where his thoughts bash into each other too fast, too rapidly for him to keep up. Even when he’s fucked up from coke, if he smokes himself back down, he can think clearer.

_Where is Zayn? Why is his with Amy? He’s supposed to be with me._

_But that’s not right, because we can’t be seen together. Zayn is too afraid of what they’ll say, of what they’ll think._

_I want to kiss him right here. Right now._

Finally, Harry feels someone kicking at his boot there on the concrete. He had almost convinced himself he was floating in the pool on his back, since both hands were down skimming the water for god only knows how long.

“You good?” Zayn asks, amused.

Harry tilts his head so he can take Zayn in, the way his hoodie is up over his head, his nose ring glinting in the light, his stubble deliciously grown in and masculine. _I want his face between my thighs_ , Harry thinks. And then he grins at himself for thinking something so ridiculous.

“I’m good,” Harry lies, even as he sniffs and tries to dislodge the chemicals from his sinuses.

Zayn kicks at Harry’s foot again until he moves over slightly and there’s enough room for Zayn to sit at the foot of the diving board. He takes Harry’s bong, realizes it’s almost cashed out, and takes two hits of his own. There’s something so beautiful about watching Zayn partake in his product. Or maybe it’s just Zayn who is beautiful, someone who could make the most mundane task look sexy.

“Why are you being so antisocial?” Zayn says as he holds his breath to keep the smoke in his lungs for longer. He exhales through his nose.

“Why are _you_ being _social_?” Harry quirks an eyebrow at him. “How’s Amy doing?”

“Don’t do that,” Zayn smiles ruefully. “It’s not like that.”

“Someone should tell her then.”

“I have,” Zayn smacks at Harry’s arm playfully, even in a room full of people. “I was just being friendly, that’s all.”

Harry crosses his damp hands over his stomach and shrugs, eyes straying back to the vaulted ceiling. The water reflects so oddly up on the piping and insulation. Since he’s homeless for the night, Harry could honestly see himself sleeping right there on a diving board. He could kick off his boots and sleep no problem, right above the blue water and next to the buoy ropes.

Suddenly he feels Zayn’s finger running along the seam of his outer thigh, hidden by Zayn’s body so no one can see. Just a small touch, a little something to tide Harry over. He has to exhale a breath and close his eyes, he’s so tempted to reach out and take Zayn’s hand in his own. There’s so much he wants to do, so much he wants to say. Maybe the drugs make him ballsier.

“You wanna know something?” he asks, eyes still closed, face serene.

“What’s that,” Zayn responds easily, his finger still roaming Harry’s thigh.

Harry feels brave, like he could say anything at all.

“I wish I could pull you down so you could lay here with me,” Harry shrugs. _I like being honest_. “I want to kiss you and put my hands in your pants. Want you to come because of me.”

Zayn inhales a sharp breath and stops moving his finger. He doesn’t take it away though, which Harry considers a win. Maybe the drugs make Zayn ballsy too.

“Do _you_ want to know something?” Zayn says quietly, so quietly Harry has to cock his head to the side to get it.

“What?”

“I wish that too.”

Harry has to move his hands under his head then, so he’s not tempted to touch Zayn somewhere he’s not allowed to in public. They’re still so painfully in public, surrounded by so many eyes and faces and expressions. He thinks that’ll be it, that Zayn will get up to go find Lou or Liam, will go get another drink and mingle before they all go home for two weeks. Maybe they’ll talk later, maybe they won’t talk at all, and will leave in the morning without anything further. Maybe two weeks will follow where they truly cool off and Zayn decides it can’t be a thing anymore, that they’re already too reckless in public.

But Zayn must not be able to keep it all in anymore; he must need to open his mouth just as much as Harry.

“The Jag isn’t buried under the snow anymore,” Zayn says nonchalantly.

Harry’s eyes snap open.

“You think?” he whips his head up so they can see eye to eye.

“Yeah.”

“What do you – ”

Zayn pats at Harry’s upper thigh, even around all of their classmates, and smiles, his cheeks pink.

“I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

Harry smiles at him like a stupid idiot, until Zayn makes his way off the diving board and back into the crowd of teenagers. Sometimes Harry swears Zayn is nothing but a mirage, the way he can blend back in, the way he practically floats as he walks.

Harry then does one last lap around the edge of the pool to swap money and pills into various hands. The lacrosse players even jokingly bow at his feet, their savior for the last party of the year. Girls kiss his cheeks, boys slap his ass, and Niall jumps on him so they both almost topple over. Niall says they’re best friends, that they have a few more months of school to live it up, right? Harry agrees and sets Niall back onto the ground before he trips and breaks his teeth on the bleachers.

No one notices him slip out, thankfully. He doesn’t say goodbye outright, not even to the boys, and runs to the Jag with his bag under his arm. Zayn is waiting there for him because of course he is, leaned back on the car like he’s in a fucking Armani ad.

Harry doesn’t hesitate, he gets right up in Zayn’s space. Even though they’re in the parking lot that many dorms overlook, Harry doesn’t care. It’s late and no one is watching. His eyes tell Zayn to let him have it.

Zayn reciprocates and hugs Harry against his chest, their cheeks touching. He runs his hands up and down Harry’s back, smooths at his hair, even tucks a hand into Harry’s back pocket for a few seconds.

“Do you have any idea how good you look,” Zayn mumbles, mouth suddenly at Harry’s ear, “when you’re working?”

Harry’s eyes snap shut, his dick so hard it almost hurts. He presses against Zayn and drops his duffle into the melting snow near the passenger door. _I could say the same thing about you._

“No,” he says with a soft voice.

“It’s insane,” Zayn says with a light laugh, like he can’t believe it. “They fall all over you, they love you, they need you. And you…”

“I what?”

“You need them too. And it’s nice to see you happy.”

Harry exhales a breath and smiles into Zayn’s neck.

“Only you make me happy.”

“Sure,” Zayn snorts.

“It’s true!”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You don’t know what I look like when I lie,” Harry says as his cheeks flare up.

“Yes I do,” Zayn whispers, his tongue flicking out to Harry’s earlobe with every syllable. “I know you, Harry Styles.”

Harry can’t stand it, he can’t keep himself from moving back to kiss Zayn. He has to. But Zayn reads his mind and shifts them apart, so Harry can go to the driver’s side and unlock the doors.

Harry scrambles somewhat, still tweaking slightly from the coke, but he manages it. He gets into the car and Zayn follows, just like all those weeks they spent in there together. Harry fucking loves his Jag, now more than ever, as he runs a thankful hand over the steering wheel, the radio, the seat between them. Harry owes so much to his beautiful car.

Ten seconds later, they’re making out.

 

***

 

Harry doesn’t see his father for eight full days, once he’s back in the city. There’s something depressing about that, something he can’t quite put his finger on, the fact that his dad’s office and living quarters are only feet away from Harry's bedroom and yet they don’t cross paths once until Christmas Eve. It’s like over the last week, they’ve been like ships passing in the night. Harry on his way out to see various friends and buyers, to see Gem, to smoke on the roof. And his father on his way to meetings and business dinners. Never to meet.

That night, Harry, decked to the nines in a new Alexander McQueen suit and Gucci shoes, shifts at the dining room table as his diamond-encrusted mother pretends to say grace over their food. Their family has never been religious and it’s hilarious to both Harry and Gemma that Anne randomly chooses a holiday here and there to pretend like they are. Harry glances across the table at Gemma and they lock eyes, their lips quirking into quick grins, before crossing their hands and bowing their heads. Gemma had just told Harry that she had a surprise for him before going back to school, so Harry had a little extra pep in his step.

Des walks in right as Anne unclasps her ringed fingers, her silent prayer wrapped up with a bow.

“How nice of you to join us,” Gemma says coldly, reaching for the potatoes.

“Gemma,” Des responds with a nod, as he situates himself at the other end of the mile-long table.

Harry tries to hide his snort of a laugh behind the salad bowl, but his mother notices and stares daggers at him to shut the fuck up.

As always during a Styles family dinner, the conversation stays stilted and mostly on one of three topics: Des’s business happenings, his cars, and Anne’s foundation. Harry and Gemma mostly stay silent unless called upon, since they rarely have much to add. Their family has never been close, not even a little bit, and it’s never more evident than at Christmas. It’s like they’re four strangers who happen to live in the same house sat down at a table, expected to chit chat.

It’s pathetic.

At one point Anne makes a comment about Gemma’s new hair color, a washed out grey, and that leads into a ten minute conversation about Gemma being a goddamn adult now, and no, she doesn’t plan on changing it.

Harry and Gemma learned early on not to jump into the arguments they have with their parents, unless it’s absolutely necessary. So Harry keeps quiet and tries to curl into himself, to make himself smaller, so as to not draw attention to his own unruly hair. That’s the last thing he needs.

But then quick as anything, the two women at the table fall silent, Gemma huffing her breath and Anne pressing at her temples, and Harry knows it’s his turn.

“Harry,” Des says with his casual air of indifference, “how is school going?”

Harry stops midchew, his fork twirling between his fingers. His father always asks about school, and he always expects Harry to be excelling.

“It’s fine, thank you,” Harry says respectfully, even though he barely respects his father on a good day.

“Are you sure about that?” Des quirks an eyebrow as he swirls the red wine around in his glass.

Harry can’t quite figure out where the conversation is headed, whether his parents really know how school has been, whether or not he’s “living up to his full potential.” So he lies.

“Yes sir.”

Des licks at his bottom lip, his eyes assessing his only son like Harry is one of his business associates. Someone who made a bad deal, said the wrong statistic in front of a buyer, offended Des somehow.

Harry swallows.

“Because we have a letter in my office that says otherwise,” Des says, sitting more upright in his chair.

Two things happen at once: Harry's eye twitches and his blood runs hot. Because his eye always twitches when he’s caught and he’s fucking furious. He _knew_ his father wouldn’t show up to a family dinner on Christmas Eve unless he absolutely had to. And apparently this year it’s because he had to lambast Harry for his abysmal grades. 

Harry knew he was slacking at school. He knew it and everyone around him knew it. He barely put in any effort to write his papers, he didn’t study for his finals, and he nearly missed his French exam after he overslept. Jack had to throw a pillow at his face to finally wake him up.

But somehow Harry had convinced himself that he could fake it, could put in just enough effort to skate by. He thought he had at least pulled off a few C’s, something to put on his final transcripts that wouldn’t look _too_ bad for colleges. So to hear from his father that his plan failed, that _he_ failed, is not something he expected.

“I can explain that,” Harry tries, as he sets his fork down and presses at the lapels of his suit jacket. He tries to keep his anger in check.

“Is that so?” Des asks, sensing Harry's real emotions bubbling beneath the surface. Assessing Harry like a client.

“It was… a tough semester, is all. I just…”

“You were distracted,” Des supplies for him, not knowing how right he is. _Drugs, selling, partying, Zayn. Zayn, just Zayn, all Zayn, all the time._

Harry nods.

“Well you know what this means,” Des says with finality.

“No,” Harry says, because he really doesn’t. He hasn’t been punished for one of his actions in years, it seems. Des, usually so blind to what his children are up to, by either choice or complete lack of interest, hasn’t felt the need to enforce any sort of rule.

Harry looks to his left at his mother, for her help, only to see her eyes drifting up above Gemma’s head like she doesn’t have a care in the world, and then to his right to look at his father.

He isn’t prepared at all for what Des says.

“I’m taking away your car.”

Harry sputters at that, completely caught off guard.

“You can’t take away the Jag.”

_I need it, it’s mine, it’s our place._

“I absolutely can,” Des says as he sets his empty wine glass down and pats at his mouth with his napkin. “You barely passed this semester. How do you think Columbia will react to that? I’ll have to make a _call_ , Harry.”

“You can’t take away the Jag,” Harry repeats himself, his face hot. “I need my car.”

“You need less distractions,” Des says as they lock eyes. “I’m taking away a distraction. You can have it back when your grades improve.”

“Dad, I _need_ my car.”

But Des doesn’t respond. Instead he leaves the table and heads towards the staircase leading up to his wing of the apartment. Harry slams his fists down on the table and looks towards his mother again for help, but she just polishes off her third glass of wine and frowns at him. She shrugs as if to say _it’s not up to me, darling_. And then she too exits the room, ready for the maids to come clean up after them.

When Harry looks to Gemma, he sees her eyes glazed over, the pill she took before dinner finally kicking in.

“You know how he can get,” she says incoherently, her words blending together. “It’ll blow over and you’ll have it back by spring break.”

“I need my car,” Harry huffs, crossing his arms, incensed at the turn of events. He never imagined this is how the night would’ve gone, not with his one prized possession being taken away. The one place that Harry can retreat to, their place, gone.

Harry sits there for another ten minutes, furious that his father suddenly decided to be a parent, until Agnes pinches his cheek and tells him to go to bed like a good boy.

 

***

 

It’s a lonely place to be, the Styles’ house on Christmas. Gemma left immediately after dinner, kissed Harry's cheek and said she had a party to attend with Marco. His mother disappeared into her bedroom, probably to take a Xanax and relax in the bathtub. She had a special Christmas event to attent the next morning, something for orphaned children. And Des… well who gives a shit what Des was up to, because Harry absolutely hates his father with every ounce of his being.

Harry perches himself on the window seat of his bedroom, in his Gucci sweatpants and loafers, and looks out over the park while he drinks from a bottle of merlot and listens to an old Journey record. The park is gorgeous to look at, covered in a light dusting of snow, people walking down on the street hand in hand. It’s a holiday, one of the most lovely of the year, and as always, Harry doesn’t have anyone to share it with.

And now without the Jag to steal away to, it feels even worse.

Five minutes and a song later, after he takes another swig from the bottle, he calls his best friend. Because he needs to hear Louis’s voice.

He also needs Zayn.

“Harold,” Louis slurs over the phone, wasted out of his mind and more than likely wearing a party hat. “My Harold.”

“How’s it been?” Harry wonders, kicking at a pillow there on the window seat.

“It’s my birthday,” Louis slurs even worse, the sounds of a party tinkling in the back ground.

“I know it is.”

“I’m old,” he hiccups. “I’m nineteen now, I’m almost to twenty-one. I’m a whole year past the voting age. What if I start getting wrinkles?”

Harry snorts and takes another drink of wine.

“You’re not old. And no wrinkles, promise.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Harry wishes he could be with Louis, could be anywhere else in the world at the moment. He wishes he could be back at school, at his real home with his real family. Just Harry and the boys, living it up Lost Boys style like they didn’t have a worry at all. They’d have drinks and probably get high on Gemma’s good weed, tell stories, dream of their futures.

Instead Harry is stuck in the penthouse of a multi-million dollar apartment. All alone.

He misses something he can’t even remember having.

He misses Zayn.

As if on cue, there’s a shuffling sound, of a phone being passed around. Harry sits up straighter, alert, when the voice comes across the line.

“Hey Haz,” Zayn slurs with a smile in his voice. “How are you?”

“Sad,” Harry frowns, maudlin and self-pitying.

“Why’re you sad for?”

Harry wishes they could really have a conversation, full of whispers and sweet nothings. He wishes Zayn was alone there in New Jersey, could say whatever he wanted, instead of next to Louis and truncated for their own good.

Harry wishes so many things.

“Just am,” he settles on, sighing into his wine.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry frowns again.

More rustling sounds, laughter, a door slamming shut, the far off barking of a dog. It must be a party with Louis’s sisters, even though it’s a bad influence to be drunk in front of them. Louis’s parents must be asleep already.

Louis says something Harry can’t make out, and then it’s quieter. Like Zayn has moved away from the party.

“Wish you were here,” Zayn says quietly, probably cupping the phone with his hand. “I really do.”

“Me too.”

“You know what I was thinking?” Zayn slurs even worse. It’s honestly the cutest fucking thing Harry's ever heard. He loves drunk Zayn.

“What?”

“How much I miss you when you’re not here. How much I miss you all the time,” he hiccups.

Harry closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, the sound of carolers drifting up from the street. Christmas in New York is just too good, too sweet, for Harry to handle. He rests his head, because it’s not something he’s used to, Zayn being open and honest with his feelings without being prompted into it first. Zayn, the one who insists on them keeping a secret, had to move away from a party to make sure Harry knew he was being thought of. Zayn, the one spending the holidays away from the family he actually fucking loves, wants Harry to feel needed.

_I think I’m falling for you. I’ve probably already fallen._

“I miss you too,” he says to Zayn, pressing the bottle of wine against his bare chest.

Louis must grab for the phone because the two of them begin to fight, their slurred words hard to make out. In the end, Louis wrestles it back because he starts yelling at Harry to have fun and be happy, to go get drunk, to celebrate his birthday from afar. Harry assures Louis that he has his wine, he’s celebrating, he’s just fine, thank you.

Harry's so used to lying these days, he doesn’t evne blink at it.

“We’re gonna go,” Louis yells a few minutes later, “Lots just got here. Time for presents.”

“Alright, well,” Harry says with a sigh, “have fun.”

“We miss you!” Zayn yells from somewhere far off.

Harry closes his eyes again and hugs his wine bottle, because he misses Zayn so much it hurts somewhere deep in his stomach. And Zayn actually said it around Louis, which means he means it. He really means it.

“Miss you,” Harry says quietly, even though he’s pretty sure Louis had already hung up.

_I’m all alone, yet again._

_But Zayn misses me and we’re a thing._

_My thoughts create my world._

 

***

 

Gemma and Harry used to have their own driver. Mauricio. He was a short, stocky man from Long Island who smoked as he drove, even though he wasn’t supposed to. He was actually the first grown up to ever bum Harry a cig when he asked at thirteen, the Camel pack held up in one hand and the lighter in the other, as if to say _why the hell not, kid._

He wasn’t their guardian or babysitter for the two years before high school, he wasn’t required to report back to Anne and Des what their children were up to. He was simply hired to take the two of them to school, cello lessons, French tutoring, and tennis practice. He was just a driver. But as was their way, Gemma and Harry used him as often as they could. They would pile their groups of friends into the large towncar, ask to be driven around the city while they smoked cigarettes and drank disgusting stolen peach schnapps. They skipped tennis often, asked to be driven to Coney Island just because, had entire days spent in the backseat just wandering around the city.

Like a few of his first nannies, Harry remembers Mauricio well. He really liked him, enjoyed their chats from across the car partition, and appreciated that Mauricio never told the Styles what their kids were up to most days. But once Harry started at F.M. to join Gemma, they didn’t need a driver on retainer anymore. Harry wonders what happened to Mauricio, once he was let go. Maybe he’s driving two other spoiled brats around Manhattan now.

Harry sighs and leans his head back on the seat there in the towncar headed back towards school. This time he has a woman driver, he didn’t catch her name. She had a stern face, her suit jacket crisp and pressed, and only nodded when Harry dropped down into the backseat with his massive luggage and bag of new drugs. She didn’t offer a cigarette and she certainly didn’t strike up any conversation. Harry distinctly misses Mauricio in that moment, the moment of feeling like a kid again without his beloved car. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s made his way back to school without being behind the wheel himself.

Harry curls his hands into fists at the thought, still angry at his father for taking the Jag away for no fucking reason.

Just then his phone rings in his pocket, vibrating against his thigh. Harry reaches for it and with a dopey grin on his face, discovers that it’s Zayn Malik himself.

That’s one distraction Des could never take away.

“Hey,” Harry answers with the same grin, “long time no talk.”

They had talked four more times since Christmas Eve, so it’s not at all true. But Harry sometimes gets the disctinct feeling that when he’s not physically in Zayn's presence or talking to him directly, it’s a wasted moment. It’s a wasted life. And it feels like an eternity since their last conversation.

“Hey H,” Zayn says lightly.

“Where are you?”

“My room.”

Harry nods at that, not surprised that Zayn and Louis made it back before he did. He dragged his feet for days leading up to school restarting, not that he wasn’t excited to get back to Zayn, but reluctant to take a fucking towncar like a fucking child.

“Where’s Lou?” Harry asks, scratching at his jeaned thigh.

“Dining hall. Eating with Liam,” Zayn says just as lightly as before.

There’s something there behind Zayn's tone, but Harry can’t quite place it. It’s like Zayn is holding in a secret, or has a juicy story to tell that he can’t wait to divuldge.

“What are you up to?” Harry wonders out loud, his eyes bouncing through the open partition to see if the driver has been listening.

“Nothing. Just stoned, is all.”

“Liar,” Harry smiles. “Tell me.”

“Nothing,” Zayn says again, but in a huskier voice. Sexier. A fucking delicious tone. “I just thought…”

“What?”

Harry sits up straighter as the car bumps along down winding, sloping back roads the closer it gets to F.M. out in the middle of nowhere. Zayn has something on his mind and Harry desperately wishes he could read it.

“Just wondered…”

“What?”

“What are you wearing?” Zayn says with a sly grin.

Harry almost chokes on his own spit he’s so surprised. He coughs into his fist before hurrying to find the button to raise the partition, his face hot at the turn of events. The driver eyes him through the rear view mirror, so Harry tosses up two fingers in a quick salute, until she disappears behind it.

When he’s safely alone and not to be disturbed, Harry coughs into his fist again.

“Why… do you ask?” he wonders, even though he fucking knows.

“You know why.”

“Jesus, Zayn,” Harry huffs, embarrassed. Like a fucking teenage virgin or something.

It’s just that Harry's not sure he’ll ever be used to it, this version of Zayn. Zayn when he’s high, making him brave, brazen even, not a care in the world. Zayn who had decided somewhere along the line that Harry Styles is the one he wants. A boy. _His_ boy. Harry knows it’s the same guy who could barely open his eyes those first few times in the Jag. But now it’s like an out of body experience each and every time.

“Tell me,” Zayn insists, as Harry hears the rustling of fabric behind his voice. Like Zayn is getting comfortable in bed.

“Christ, are you getting naked?” Harry huffs, checking once again that the partition is closed.

“Maybe.”

“No fair,” Harry says with a laugh, suddenly half hard in his jeans. “I’m stuck in the car.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Zayn muses.

Harry snorts at that.

And then he feels a pang of sadness in his gut, at the Jag being cooped up in his father’s garage at that very moment. When he had told Zayn a few days before that the Jag had been taken away, they both couldn’t bring themselves to admit that they were sad. It was their place, after all.

So maybe this is Zayn's way of making Harry feel better during his long drive.

A little phone sex before their reunion.

Harry would give Zayn the fucking world if he could, so he decides to play along. To give Zayn what he wants right back, to have a little fun, to get back into the mindset of recklessness that follows all of F.M.’s students around.

Harry settles back against the seat and presses a hand to his erection.

“You wanna know what I’m wearing?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says quietly, waiting.

“I’m wearing those Versace jeans from last spring. And the Gucci sweater you like so much.”

“The black one?”

“Yeah.”

Harry starts to rub at his clothed dick a little more tenaciously, as he hears Zayn get breathless on the other end of the line. Zayn's a sucker for designer clothes, they’ve always said so. And apparently he likes how Harry wears his.

“Undo your jeans,” Zayn says.

“Okay,” Harry huffs as he fumbles with his fly.

“Touch yourself,” Zayn insists.

So Harry does. And he makes sure to be loud with it, the driver be damned. Let her hear. He perches the phone between his cheek and shoulder blade and touches himself like he did in the Jag all those weeks agao. He grips his cock between his thumb and forefinger, whining slightly at the pressure. It’s too good. It’s always too good.

Zayn must read his mind.

“Feel good?” he asks Harry between breaths, clearly touching himself too.

“Fuck,” Harry says in response, his eyes practically crossing as he envisions Zayn naked on his bed, jerking himself off to Harry's breathy moans.

“You gonna come for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Gonna let me hear you?”

“Yeah.”

Harry can barely stand it, the faster he works his hand over his cock. It’s a little too dry, too hurried and rushed, but it’ll do. He can hear the stuttered breaths coming from Zayn every few seconds, his hand probably flying over his own cock just as fast.

Harry comes with a grunt, his feet lifting off the floor as he curls into himself. It’s his first orgasm in days, he can barely control it as he milks himself dry. He goes past the point of pleasure, just because, to hear himself hiss at the sensitivity. He wants Zayn to hear every breath, every sound.

It works because Zayn slams his teeth together and comes with a strangled cry, always so set on keeping his face in check whenever he’s pushed over the edge. Harry wishes he could see it, belatedly thinks they should’ve FaceTimed, because that’s another thing he’ll never get used to. Zayn's face when he lets go, when he lets Harry all the way in.

“Shit,” Zayn laughs, probably wiping his hand off on something.

“Shit is right,” Harry agrees, looking in vain for anything to clean off with.

“Good?”

“Always,” Harry scoffs. “It’s you and me.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything right away, and Harry doesn’t hear any movement on his end. Like maybe Zayn was stock still.

“You and me,” Zayn eventually says. “I like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” Harry smiles, settling for wiping his palm on an old napkin he finds in the center console.

A minute later, Zayn rushes them off the phone, so sure that Louis will be back any minute. And god forbid Louis find Zayn naked with jizz all over his stomach. It’s the only thing any of them would hear about for months.

Zayn tells Harry to hurry up and “get home.”

And for what feels like the first time in nearly three weeks, as he drives through the gate and sees Wallace give him a look, Harry exhales.

 

***

 

One of the advantages of being the school’s only dealer is that Harry can very easily spread information when it’s most necessary. For the week leading up to Zayn's birthday, Harry sells to various students and lets them know to plan ahead for the party.

“We’re doing it in the band room,” he says to each of them with a sure nod. “Make sure to bring cash.”

Because Harry had a surprise for F.M.’s students, something they had to see to believe. Gemma gave him something brand new to their little circle, something only heavy ravers and seasoned partiers were accustomed to. Ketamine, in two forms: liquid and powder. Harry had to try it on Christmas Day, since he’s never one to sell drugs without trying them first to check it out. He’s the perfect test dummy, that’s what Gemma called him.

That night at a crowded NYU bar, Harry about lost his fucking mind it was so good. Psychedelic but only just so, the sip of K made him feel like he was drunk and high on molly at the same time. It was like a sugar rush amplified to a million, his thoughts completely empty, his limbs on another level. He danced and partied that night like he would never come back down again, didn’t even take a sip of alcohol because he didn’t need to. The K did it all for him. He felt euphoric, high as a kite, like nothing could ever touch him or make him feel like shit ever again.

“And that’s what you want… right?” Harry says to a group of senior athletes, of some spring sport he can’t remember.

They crowd around him in the cramped band room off in the Bannon building away from the dorms and let him hard sell the product. The place is full of students from all four grades, dressed up like they were going to a ball. That was Zayn's request: high end cocktail attire, so they could pretend they weren’t at school and instead at a fancy bar.

“Yeah,” the group of boys chorus together, nodding their heads.

Harry is always good at the hard sell. It always works.

“Just a cap-full of this stuff, nothing more,” Harry nods along like he would with a group of toddlers, tipping the liquid from an old water bottle into the cap. “And no alcohol. You don’t need to mix it with anything. Just let the K do all the work.”

That’s how Louis finds him, with another group of students from the debate team, huddled together as Harry pours out caps of purple liquid. Gemma told him to mix it with Gatorade, to give it a little sweetness to cut the bitter of the drug itself. Louis watches from over Harry's shoulder, his arms crossed, not at all drunk yet. He had declined the K, and Harry's not sure why.

When the group disperses and Harry begins to see the effects of the drug kicking in, he smiles and stands up to face Lou.

“They love it,” Harry beams with pride, as Churck Irving spreads his arms and proclaims to the whole party that he’s the king of the world, right as his friends scream out “fifty-six thousand and counting.”

Louis doesn’t respond.

Liam and Niall make their way over, Zayn lost in the shuffle of his own party, and Harry offers the two of them the water bottle. Liam practically jumps at it, his long limbs winding around Harry's Alexander McQueen’d shoulders. He kisses Harry's cheek and says he’s the best friend he always wished he’d had as a kid. It breaks Harry's heart, even as he smiles and offers the cap.

“You just said not to mix it with alcohol,” Louis finally intones, sitting down in the chair next to Harry and Liam, who has now moved to Harry's lap.

“Yeah,” Harry nods, his arms slinking around Liam’s waist.

“Liam, you’ve had like, your entire flask,” Niall scoffs.

“It’s fine, dad,” Liam rolls his eyes. “I have a high tolerance. Don’t I, Haz. Tell him how good I am.”

“He does have a point,” Harry shrugs, right as Liam clumsily takes the cap of K and downs it.

“Are we sure we want this shit at our school?” Louis says in a low voice so Liam and Niall can’t hear, too wrapped up in their drunken conversation over Liam being a bit too big for his britches.

“It’s fine,” Harry says even though he doesn’t know that for sure. It’s the first time Louis has ever hesitated when it came to a new drug, something Gemma told them was fun to try. It’s the first time anyone has given Harry pushback at all, and he’s not sure how to take it.

Of course it’s safe. Gemma wouldn’t have him sell something that wasn’t safe.

_We take care of people._

“Are you sure?” Louis presses again, his eyes severe and accusing.

Harry doesn’t respond to that, just busies himself with capping the water bottle and tossing it into his duffle. He still had other drugs to sell, more people to impress, a certain boy to fuck around with.

Because that’s been Harry's main intention of the night: get Zayn alone and finally do the thing he’s been thinking about for two weeks, ever since they got back to school and haven’t had time to be alone together.

_Zayn. My mouth. Use my mouth to have him make that one sound._

Harry leaves Louis to tend to Liam and Niall, who have gotten into a full blown fight over Liam’s recent “recklessness.” That’s a conversation Harry absolutely does not want to be a part of, since he’s the catalyst to anything and everything Liam has ever tried. So he instead weaves his way around chairs and music stands to the far end of the room where Zayn stands to watch two junior girls making out in front of everyone, the music blaring. Harry had given them molly the day before, so it’s not a surprise to him that they found each other. Molly always makes people want to touch, touch, touch. So does the K, but so far no one has taken their top off to rub off on someone, or kiss a stranger from another class. Yet.

“Sexy,” Harry whispers into Zayn's ear from just behind him, causing Zayn to jump about three feet in the air.

He turns around and smiles at Harry, his beer sweating in his palm, completely decked out in YSL from head to toe. He looks fucking beautiful, they all know he’s the hottest person in the room, and he’s all Harry's.

“It’s alright,” Zayn gestures to the girls in the corner, as a few boys jokingly hoot and holler for them to keep going.

Harry grabs for Zayn's beer and takes a generous gulp, his eyes never leaving Zayn's. He swallows, licks at the bottle before a drop can fall, and hands it back. He sees Zayn's eyes darken plain as day, their birthday boy, Harry's boy.

Zayn steps closer, away from the group, until Harry's back is against the wall adorned with posters of wind instruments.  Harry prays to God that no one notices how close they’re standing. Zayn's drunk and his inhibitions lower whenever he’s drunk. He’d smack himself upside the head if he could see how close they were.

“You wanna get out of here?” Zayn asks with a sloppy grin.

Harry swallows. Zayn gets so brave in these moments. It’s reckless.

_My thoughts create my world._

“Yeah.”

Harry makes sure to leave the room first, his duffle over his shoulder. He tries to make it out as quietly and unseen as possible, before Zayn can slip away from his own party.

Harry should feel selfish for taking Zayn away from the party and all his friends, but he can’t seem to care. Not anymore.

 

***

 

Harry checks to make sure the coast is clear, as they peek through the main door of Morton Hall. So far Harry has avoided Wallace this semester, instead keeping to himself and not making quite as much of a show whenever he sells in the halls. He figures with his grades as bad as they are, it can’t hurt to at least pretend to give a shit about his standing at the school.

No Wallace. All clear.

Harry gestures over his shoulder for Zayn to follow him, inside and down the hall towards his room. It’s not too late yet, just a little after eleven on a Saturday night, which means Jack is with his lame group of friends watching movies in the den. Harry swore to himself that he wouldn’t do anything in his room again, not since Jack found out about their thing. But it’ll have to do. Desperate times and all that.

The thought of Jack and the secret makes Harry's stomach swoop nervously, but he ignores it.

Harry quickly ushers Zayn into his room and then shoves him unceremoniously onto the bed. He smiles wickedly, toes off his boots, and then throws himself down onto Zayn without a second thought. Zayn _oomfs_ at the body weight on top of him, caught off guard, but then it’s quickly forgotten once Harry has his hand on Zayn's groin.

“Fuck,” Zayn hisses at the pressure, right as Harry bites down on his neck.

Harry doesn’t have time for pleasantries or niceties. For all he knows, Jack could call it an early night and show up in the room at any moment. This is all they have together, stolen moments where no one can see, so Harry vows to make the most of it.

He’s given a lot of thought to how this would go, how his first time would be. _First time with a dick in my mouth, first time to make it good, first boy to give it up to Zayn, if he wants it._ He wouldn’t be too eager, wouldn’t be an idiot and fumble his way through it. He’d be confident and sure of himself. Sexy. The sexiest thing Zayn's ever seen.

Harry bites down on Zayn's neck harder, careful not to leave a mark. He kisses the spot over and over, soothes the skin with his tongue, feels Zayn moving beneath him impatiently. Harry needs to hurry, and yet he can’t seem to tear himself away from Zayn's neck, chin, mouth.

“Missed this so much,” Harry whispers to Zayn's clavicle, wherever his mouth can reach on Zayn's exposed chest, over wings, red lips, and skulls wearing top hats. He pulls at Zayn's shirt to get more skin, and says, “Off.”

Zayn hurries to move Harry off of him, so he can do just that. They both remove their shirts and nice jeans, until they’re in nothing but their boxer briefs, all of their tattoos on full display. Zayn looks sinful when he’s naked or almost naked, and Harry can’t stop mouthing at every inch of skin he sees.

Zayn's shoulder, his nipples, the dip to his stomach. It’s all so overwhelming, the heat mixing between them, as if they both know this is headed somewhere they’ve never been. Unknown, unsafe territory. No man’s land.

“Harry,” Zayn whines, his hips jutting upwards until they’re rubbing off together.

“I got you,” Harry says into Zayn's hip bone. “I got you.”

And with that, Harry reaches for Zayn's boxers and tugs them down his legs. He comes face to face with Zayn's dick for the first time up close and it’s… a lot. It’s perfectly sized, almost a match to Harry's, cut and smooth. Harry takes it in his hand and sizes it up, wonders how the fuck he’ll ever fit it in his mouth without gagging. He glances up and sees Zayn with his hands behind his head, watching with hooded eyes.

“You don’t…” Zayn starts, unsure of how to finish the sentence. Nervous. Anxious.

_You don’t have to._

Harry knows he doesn’t have to. He wants to. He’s never wanted anything more in his entire goddamn life. And he can see on Zayn's face that this is something he didn’t expect, something _so fucking gay_ of them to do. There’s no turning back after this. Even after everything they’ve done, this is huge.

Harry wants it to be good. If they’re gonna be gay, he needs it to be good.

Worth it.

“I know, babe,” Harry says with a nod, tightening his grip on Zayn's cock. “I know.”

And then swift as anything, Harry lowers himself to rest the head against his wet bottom lip. It’s so hot to the touch.

It’s like in the woods, when their wrists touched.

It’s skin touching skin, and they’re both scorching.

Zayn reaches a hand down and rests it at the nape of Harry's neck, his long fingers laced through Harry's hair. They lock eyes again right as Harry flicks his tongue out to get his first taste.

Zayn groans. Harry licks again, gets the underside of the head all wet, flicks his tongue into the slit. He knows his way around his own dick, he knows what feels good when a girl does it. So he copies what Dalia Distenfeld did the first time they had sex. He takes the head into his mouth and holds it there, careful of his teeth, and sucks hard. His cheeks hollow, he lowers his head down a few inches, until he has a mouth full. _Holy shit I’m doing it._

Harry eases up slightly, until the it’s just the head in his mouth once more, and then sucks again. And again. He fully bobs up and down on it, makes sure to have enough spit, and always careful of his teeth.

Zayn whines above him, overwhelmed at the sensation. A boy sucking his dick, Harry Styles, golden boy of New York, sucking his fucking dick. _I’m doing it!_

“Babe, babe, babe,” Zayn babbles helplessly, his head shaking back and forth as Harry speeds up the pace.

Harry could _bathe_ in the way Zayn calls him babe. He could hear it for the rest of his fucking life and not get sick of it, he swears. So he brings a hand up to hold Zayn's balls and goes faster, faster, faster.

“Harry, I’m… I can’t…”

Harry looks up at Zayn's face and sees his eyes closed tight, chin tilted up towards the ceiling. Not watching. Something in Harry cracks at the thought of Zayn not being able to watch, Zayn closing his eyes yet again at what they’re doing, unable to participate.

He pulls off quickly and wipes at his mouth, careful not to hump down onto the bed to ease his own erection.

_You always close your eyes. You always get embarrassed. I can’t do this unless you’re all the way in. I can’t hold in this secret much longer._

“Look at me,” Harry says in a set, stern voice. “You have to look at me.”

Zayn blinks a few times towards the ceiling and then in a daze drops his chin down so they’re looking at each other. His face floods red, like he’s embarrassed or maybe regretting it already. It’s hard to tell.

Harry thumbs at the precome at the corner of his mouth and waits.

“I didn’t mean to,” Zayn mumbles. “It’s not like that.”

Harry blinks.

“I’ll keep my eyes open, babe. I’ll watch.”

Harry doesn’t say anything in return because they both know where his head’s at. _You can’t be ashamed of this, you can’t let me do this while also wishing it was a girl._

He goes back in, leans back down and takes Zayn into his mouth once more. He goes harder, faster even, hollowing his cheeks. He kneads Zayn's balls in his palm, applies a bit of pressure so he really feels it. It’s building up, Harry can tell even though it’s his first time, the way Zayn's entire body tenses and his balls draw up slightly.

Harry didn’t give much thought to the relase itself, how he’d react or what he’d do. But now that he’s in it, now that he’s finally here, he knows he wants it in his mouth. He wants to swallow, to try, to see if he can do it.

When he looks up through his damp eyelashes to look at Zayn's face, they lock eyes again. Zayn nods because he hasn’t looked away, he hasn’t closed his eyes at all. He’s there. _He’s here._

“H,” Zayn warns him, his fingers tightening in Harry's hair. “I’m…”

Harry tries to nod, uses his other hand’s fingers to squeeze Zayn's thigh, to let him know it’s okay. To keep going, to let go. Harry loves it when Zayn lets go.

Twenty seconds later, it happens. Zayn's entire body engages, his stomach contracts, his neck about pops. They stare at each other, Zayn's mouth clamped shut, as Zayn begins to pulse down Harry's inexperienced throat. Harry holds on tight to Zayn's thigh, makes sure to keep sucking, as he swallows thick come for the first time. It’s salty, hot, as it shoots at the back of his throat. He can feel himself begin to sputter, to cough around it, so he sucks harder and wills himself to relax. To let it happen.

Zayn pulls at the hair at the back of his head, overwhelmed. Harry allows himself to be pulled off, his throat coated, and huffs a few labored breaths. Sucking dick is very taxing, it turns out.

“Oh my god,” Zayn says out loud, his head finally dropping back onto Harry's pillow.

“Was it…”

“Don’t you dare even ask,” Zayn says with a lazy smile towards the ceiling. “You know that was fucking unbelievable.”

Harry smiles to himself and wipes at his mouth, proud that he actually did it well. Harry loves to excel when he really puts his mind to something. It’s why he’s so good at his job.

Harry hauls himself up to his knees, his erection pressing at the front of his boxers uncomfortably. He’s pretty positive that he’ll have to tug one off in the restroom in about three minutes, once Zayn has made his way back to the party.

But Zayn surprises him. He grabs for Harry's hips and switches their positions until Harry is flat on his back.  Harry, completely whiplashed and at the mercy of Zayn, has no idea what is about to happen.

Zayn reaches for his boxers and tugs them down just enough for Harry's cock to spring free. And then Zayn hovers over him, their noses practically touching, as Zayn grips Harry in his hand. He whispers to Harry that it was amazing, the best, the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

That’s how Harry comes, with Zayn's hand wrapped around him and Zayn's words pressed into his ear.

_Good, so good, you did so good._

 

***

 

 Gemma blows into town like a hurricane, as always. She makes herself known by slapping at Harry's cheek one Saturday morning while he’s asleep, Jack Darcy be damned. Apparently even he knows to let Gemma do whatever the hell she wants, as he stews at his desk over in the corner while Gemma hops on Harry's bed and shakes him awake.

It’s the happiest Harry has seen her in awhile, completely elated at his numbers. His K sales have been through the roof. He’s selling joints and coke at warp speed, the kids at F.M. clearly off the rails even more than before. She ruffles his hair when she checks under his bed and finds a baggie of empty benzo bottles. Her friend Alice, who also accompanied her for the visit, perches at Harry's desk and smiles just as proudly.

Harry, the only Styles at F.M., has been doing so good.

There’s really no one else in the world that Harry wants to make proud aside from Gemma, so he takes the compliments and cheek kisses with a sloppy grin on his face.

The boys are just as happy to see Gemma and Alice as Harry is. Louis jumps on Alice’s back and pretends to be carried by her, even as she drops him with a thunk on Niall and Liam’s floor. Liam, high on something as always, grabs for Gemma and slow dances her around the room as Niall watches sharply. And Gemma, their original dealer and pill extraordinare, is as popular as ever when they all make their way to lunch in the dining hall. She and Alice are treated to hugs and high fives the entire time, as various freshmen who never knew them whisper behind their hands about how nice and pretty they are.

“I’ve missed you,” Gemma beams at the group of boys, spearing a piece of pear on her fork and waving it around at the dining hall at large, “and this.”

Harry snorts at that, Gemma always such a sucker for attention. They’re so alike it’s almost creepy. Louis catches Harry's eye and they snicker together, thinking the same thing: _the Styles kids are always starved for attention._

“But college must be better though, right?” Niall asks the girls as he leans forward on the table. “You like it?”

“I _love_ it,” Gemma assures him, leaning in as well. “More freedom, interesting classes, an actual night life in the city. It’s great.”

“Fuck, I can’t wait,” Zayn sighs as he leans his cheek on his hand. “Can’t fucking wait to be out of high school.”

“Ditto,” Liam scoffs, shoving his entire plate of food away.

Harry frowns at that and lovingly grabs for Liam’s arm. School is hard for him. They all know he didn’t do very well on his finals, and he tried harder than any of them. But Harry frowns harder at the thought of leaving school, the only place he’s ever felt at home.

The only place Zayn and him have ever had, aside from the Jag.

The conversation swerves into easier to digest territory: tattoos. Gemma loves Harry's chest piece with the birds and can’t wait for Zayn to give her one of her own. She wants a quote on her right forearm, something from some poet she studied in class during fall semester. They all agree to have a tattoo party that night in Zayns’ room, so long as they “fucking pay this time, since I don’t do this shit for free.” That has Harry smiling, because Zayn has never charged him for a tattoo. Not yet.

That night, they do just that. As they play music and begin the party, Gemma busts out some new pills she’s been dying for them to try, some strain of X that’s a little milder and more like getting a sharp buzz on alcohol without all the calories. Harry sees colors brighter than he ever thought possible, he says so right as Liam holds up his hands and can’t believe he has ten fingers. It’s fucking amazing.

It’s been almost two weeks since Harry and Zayn's big night in Harry's room. Two long, tortuous weeks since Harry's had his mouth on Zayn in some way. They’ve been too busy with school, Harry's work out schedule, and Zayn's tattoo appointments to have any time alone together. So once Harry is high as a kite, sucking on a Jolly Rancher to give his tongue something tangible to do, he’s itching to hold onto Zayn in some way.

Zayn only smokes a little weed before he tattoos someone, so he readies himself on his desk chair, snapping on gloves, a joint between his lips. God, Harry could fucking jerk off at the mere sight of Zayn smoking Harry’s weed and pushing up his glasses with his forearm, the way the smoke sort of hovers around Zayn like he’s on fire. Maybe not on fire, but smoldering. _Yeah, smoldering. I like that._

He gets to work on Louis first, to give him some more little bullshit pieces just because: a smiley face with Xs for eyes, a paper airplane, a lit match. Louis insists that they all have meaning, that he loves how Zayn can freeform little things for him on the fly. Harry thinks he just wants to have his forearm as full as possible as fast as he can, which is pretty ridiculous. Then he gives Liam his initials on each hand near his thumbs.

Gemma, who insists she isn’t _scared_ of needles, thank you, says she’ll go after Harry's is done. Harry jumps at the chance to get close to Zayn, so he throws himself down onto Zayn's unmade bed and holds out his left arm. Zayn had drawn him a rose design for the upper part of his forearm, and he’d quite like to get on with it. It’ll take a few sessions to get the shading done right, but Harry wants to get it started. He also wants to lean down and kiss Zayn on the mouth, but he refrains.

Once Zayn smiles at him and gets to work, Harry's mind drifts a bit. His sister and Alice, the boys, they’re all distracted with dancing and mixing drinks on Louis’s side of the room. So Harry looks up towards the ceiling and tries to let his thoughts wander. Sometimes drugs make his mind feel like all of his hopes and dreams have been put into a blender at high speed, and tonight is no different. He doesn’t think of his dreams, because he doesn’t have any, not beyond hitting his numbers and making Gemma proud. He doesn’t think of his future, because he hates to admit that most days, he can’t picture one. He instead thinks of Zayn, of the all the secrets he’s been keeping, the way Jack eyes him suspiciously whenever the boys file out of their room after a night of studying, like he knows Harry wants to kiss Zayn goodnight.

Eventually he feels feathers between his fingers. Smooth, light feathers.

Harry finally blinks after about ten minutes and looks down at his arm being tattooed, and how his other arm has moved so that he’s rubbing Zayn's hair. Not feathers, just the ink black hair he dreams about most nights.

“Stop petting me, babe,” Zayn whispers with a smile, not taking his eyes off his work, the tattoo gun running across Harry's delicate skin like a knife.

“Sorry,” Harry smiles back, even though he isn’t. He loves touching Zayn, in any way that he can. And feeling up his gorgeous head of hair is right there at the top of Harry's favorite list.

Harry removes his hand from Zayn's head and lays it back on his bare stomach, willing himself to keep blinking. He needs moisture back in his eye sockets, they’re too dry, so he does it again and again.

And maybe it’s because he’s distracted again, the drugs making his thoughts all jumbled. Because he reaches for Zayn's hand not working the tattoo gun and pulls it to his stomach, so he can link their fingers together. Zayn's insanely long fingers, his perfect finger nails, the rough skin of his palm. Harry feels all of it, even as Zayn scoffs slightly at the gesture. Zayn glances over his shoulder to make sure no one is looking, before bringing his eyes back to Harry to tell him off with just a look.

Harry just smiles at him, his lip between his teeth, like maybe he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like maybe nothing matters, just their hands linked together as Zayn gives Harry another tattoo. Like nothing could touch them or make them do anything other than smile.

Zayn gives him three more seconds of hand holding, before he shakes Harry off. He scowls a bit, probably at being so open with their affection around so many people, but he too smiles. Like he loves touching Harry just as much as Harry loves touching him. _Two weeks. Two weeks!_

Harry moves his arm behind his head to prop it up and sighs contentedly. He could probably take a nap while Zayn finished the outline, could rest his eyes and take away the need to blink at all. He smiles to himself.

But when he glances back over towards the group, his smile falls right off his face. Because Gemma’s staring right at him, her brow furrowed as if to say, _oh Harry, what did you do?_

Harry blinks twenty times in a row, caught off guard at being caught red handed. His breathing picks up, he’s too stunned to move, at Gemma seeing him hold Zayn's hand easy as anything out in the open. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Harry presses at his forehead with his free hand, where he’s started to sweat.

Zayn, probably the smartest person Harry's ever met, sees the change in his demeanor. The way he’s gone all tense and clammy. And maybe it’s the weed Zayn smoked that makes him even smarter, philosophical and brilliant, because his face falls right as he looks over his shoulder. Gemma still hasn’t looked away, even when Alice and Louis almost knock her over as they laugh at something Liam said.

Gemma and Zayn lock eyes.

Gemma knows.

 

***

 

As is their way, Harry has to chase Zayn down again.

It’s like after the night Jack walked in on them, but worse. Because this time Zayn saw the evidence right there for himself: someone’s eyes on him, on them, because that person knows without a doubt what they’ve been up to.

Zayn made an excuse to take a piss, practically dropped the tattoo gun onto the floor. He ripped off his gloves and was out the door in two seconds flat, causing Harry's head to spin. Dizzy and off center, Harry didn’t even give an excuse to the room at large. No one was listening anyways, except for Gemma, who still hadn’t looked away or turned around from what she saw.

Harry chases Zayn down the hall towards the bathrooms, praying with all his might that he can get through to him.

_I know it’s a secret, but please don’t regret it. Don’t ruin it. Not now._

“Stop,” Harry says quietly as they round the corner to head into the stairwell, reaching for Zayn's arm.

“No.”

“Zayn, stop,” he says again, turning Zayn towards him so they’re face to face.

It’s just like before, the two of them in a darkened stairwell. Zayn moves like he’s going to go down the stairs and out the front door, his face red, but only makes it down three. As he begins to pace the stairs, he grabs for the hair over his forehead and tugs at it, like he does when he’s anxious. Except this time, Harry knows, Zayn isn’t anxious. He’s furious.

Something inside Harry tells him immediately to back down. That it isn’t like last time, where he had to grab for Zayn's hand to calm him, to assure him everything would be okay. Because this time is different. It’s out there now, Zayn knows someone knows. He saw Gemma see.

So Harry doesn’t push.

“What the fuck was I thinking,” Zayn questions in anguish, pulling his hair harder. “What the _fuck_ was I thinking?”

 Harry frowns, confused. He was the one to hold Zayn's hand, not the other way around.

“But…”

“No,” Zayn cuts him off, his hand slicing through the air. “That was my fault. I let that happen. I let you.”

“But I…”

“I shouldn’t have let you do that. I should’ve listened to myself,” Zayn points at his temple, to his conscience. “We’ve been doing this all wrong. We keep putting ourselves in danger.”

Harry frowns again.

_Danger? So now this is dangerous?_

“I told you Harry, that this is how it is,” Zayn steps down a step, and then back up again, agitated in his movements. “We don’t talk about it, we don’t tell anyone, we don’t do this shit in front of people.”

Harry crosses his arms over his bare chest and watches Zayn move around the stairwell, his eyes darting out into the hallway every few seconds. Like he’s afraid Gemma, or someone else, will follow them. He doesn’t want to be seen.

And maybe it’s because Harry does know how it is, and he’s let them go on as long as they have, hidden in the Jag, the showers, his fucking bedroom. But suddenly Harry is the angry one, the one with his blood boiling. His eye twitches something awful, a few times in a row, and Harry feels the drug wearing off slowly like a trickle down his spine. He’s coming down and revving up all at once.

“Don’t you think I know that?” Harry hisses, leaning back against the wall. “Don’t you think I get it?”

Zayn sighs and presses his palms into his eye sockets.

“The thought of someone seeing us has you literally shaking right now,” Harry continues. “You always get upset, you always freak out. I get it loud and fucking clear.”

“Then why did you touch my hair? Why did you hold my hand?” Zayn hisses back, opening his eyes. “Why do you say shit to rile me up around people, or touch me? Why? When you know we can’t?”

Harry feels himself falling off a cliff suddenly, his hands fly to the railing behind his back. Maybe the drug is still leaving his body, because he feels dizzy. Zayn hasn’t gotten this upset with him before, Harry hasn’t seen him be this angry.

Zayn's right and they both know it. It’s usually Harry initiating their heated moments, their glances across crowded rooms, their meet ups in the Jag to begin with. It’s always been Harry leading Zayn into unforeseen territory, the one to touch himself first, the one to touch Zayn in places they’ve both only thought about.

Harry is the one who needs it more.

“I can’t help it,” Harry finally responds, his body deflating against the wall. Spent and exhausted. “Don’t _you_ get it? That I can’t stop myself?”

“Harry…”

“No. It’s like… I see you and I can’t stop. It’s like something inside me makes me do this shit. I can’t – you’re all I think about, Zayn. I need to be close to you. I can’t… I can’t help it.”

Zayn deflates then too, like his strings have been cut. He moves up the three stairs that separate them, eyes bouncing out into the hallway once more, before grabbing for Harry to pull him into a hug. Harry scrambles in Zayn's arms, shoves his face into his neck, and inhales. All he needs is for them to be close, no space between them.

“Gemma won’t tell,” Harry says in a whisper. “She won’t. I know she won’t.”

Zayn nods into Harry's neck because he’s probably known all along that Gemma would never say anything. She’s too good, too noble, to give away all their secrets.

“I know we can’t tell,” Harry continues, even as his heart feels like it’s been stabbed by a knife. “But would it really be so bad if the boys knew at least?”

Zayn stiffens in Harry's arms.

“Just – they’re our friends, our… they’re the boys, Zayn. We could tell them, and they wouldn’t tell, they wouldn’t care…”

“Harry,” Zayn warns him, pulling away so they’re face to face again, still holding each other close.

“Why?” Harry questions, needing to hear Zayn say it.

_Why is it so bad? Why can’t we be who we are? Why does it have to be a secret?_

Zayn thumbs at Harry's cheek and studies Harry's face up close. It’s tender, so fucking tender, that Harry leans into Zayn's hand and sighs. It’s moments like these when Harry swears they’re done for, completely in love teenagers with nothing to lose, no worries or problems at all. It’s a moment where Zayn gives him everything without even saying anything, his eyes doing all the talking. Harry almost leans forward to kiss him, to put his feelings into it right back, but then Zayn's thumb skates across his lips to stop him.

“You know me, Harry Styles,” Zayn whispers, his thumb catching on Harry's bottom lip over and over.

“I know you.”

“I’m private, I don’t talk, I keep it all close. I just… I don’t need to tell everyone about my life.”

“I know,” Harry mumbles around Zayn's thumb, his eyes darting down to Zayn's mouth.

“Someday I’ll be ready. I’ll… I’ll be this person out loud. I know it.”

“I know.”

“Just not right now. Not yet.”

Harry kisses Zayn's thumb and then leans back in to hug Zayn close. He smothers his face in Zayn's shoulder, lets himself be held, as Zayn cradles the back of his head in his hand. It’s another tender moment, something Harry wants to bottle up and drink on lonely days.

Soon after they head back to the room, Harry so sure that the boys will have noticed their absence at some point. They walk down the hall a foot apart, not touching or holding hands, even though Harry is dying to. They’re in public again, in the hallway where anyone could see, so he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets.

When they’re back in the room, back in position as they were before with Zayn on his chair and Harry on the bed waiting for his tattoo outline to be finished, Alice and the boys don’t even bat an eye.

Zayn keeps himself facing away from the group, away from Gemma and snaps on his gloves with purpose. Harry stares at his perfect, cut-from-marble face and swallows.

When he looks up to catch Gemma’s eye, they both don’t blink. Harry very distinctly shakes his head, _not a word._

And Gemma nods. She looks torn, confused, and pitying all at once. But she nods again and again, as Harry swallows a second time. Because she’s his best friend and she knows exactly what he needs.

 

***

 

Harry's careful after that. Even when he’s stoned or drunk, he makes sure to keep his distance. Zayn must think the same thing, must realize how reckless he himself can be when under the influence. They don’t stand close, they barely interact when in the same room, and they definitely don’t touch.

Louis of course notices because Louis notices everything. He makes a comment to Harry one night that it’s “just like before” when Zayn and Harry weren’t speaking, that it’s weird for the five of them to not be on equal footing. Especially since it’s Zayn's one and only year with them on campus, they were supposed to be closer than ever. Harry assures him everything is fine, it’s just the stress of schoolwork getting to him. But it’s another lie for Harry, another one to add to the list that’s been piling up. Because he’s barely opened his stats book, and it’s nearing February.

Harry tries to focus instead on his numbers and his upcoming birthday. He decided he wanted a party in the media arts building, specifically in the theatre. He had made a joke to Liam and Louis that since their parents bregudginly shelled out so much money to fund it the year before, they might as well partake in the newness of it. The idea was met with a resounding groan.

Something about his birthday always makes Harry feel a little sad. Another year older, a year closer to true old age. Nineteen. “A whole year past the voting age,” per Louis. Harry wonders what it’ll feel like to be nineteen, to be an in-bewteen year that isn’t memorable or exciting at all. He’s not eighteen anymore, not yet twenty-one. Just barely an adult.

It’s during his party the night before another parents weekend that Harry feels himself wallowing in it a bit, the fact that he’s older and supposedly wiser. Wearing a tiara and a feather boa, he looks around at his friends and the other seniors. They really decided to do it up for him, with enough booze to go around, Harry's drugs littered among them, and four separate renditions of Happy Birthday sung to him. He’s really going to fucking miss this place once they all graduate and move on.

Zayn smiles at him during the final Happy Birthday of the night, holds up his drink to toast to Harry, and Harry's heart soars like a fucking rocket.

He hadn’t really spoken to Zayn that day, just a few stolen glances and _I miss you_ ’s whispered between them after dinner. That’s what Harry holds onto, the fact that Zayn misses him and that their thing hasn’t cooled off to the point of no return.

Towards the end of the night, Harry is a bit messy. He had downed vodka cranberries all night because pink is his favorite color and did two lines of coke with Liam. Liam, who had presented Harry's own coke to him like it was a gift, laughed his ass off at the hollow gesture. Harry had to slap him in the balls for it.

It’s when Liam hangs off of him, kisses his cheek and thanks him for being the best, that Harry feels just sloppy enough to miss Zayn and want him close. He looks down at Zayn in the orchestra pit with Niall and Ruth, who has taken to sitting on Niall’s lap at every available opportunity. Harry's surprised they haven’t fucked off to go do some fucking, in fact. Zayn glances up at Harry and smiles, his lips wet from his beer, his eyes hazy from a joint.

Harry gestures to the right wing of the stage, to where the red stage curtain is bundled up with a rope. They could hide there, they could kiss in the curtain like two star crossed lovers in a play might do. They could rub one off together quickly, if they were really quiet.

Harry smiles at him and points, to really send the message. But Zayn just shakes his head, his face suddenly tight and closed off. _Not here, not tonight._ Niall must notice Zayn acting funny, or maybe he doesn’t like Zayn's attention diverting elsewhere, because he reaches for Zayn's shirt sleeve and tugs on it to pay attention.

Zayn blinks at Harry and turns away, the moment lost.

Harry, not one to be ignored or forgotten, decides to have another vodka cranberry. Because it’s his goddamn birthday.

 

***

 

Breakfast the next day is a quiet affair.

Harry stumbles into the dining hall early on Saturday morning, as various students and their families partake in the lavish spread of food against the far wall. It’s the first long Parents Weekend of the semeseter, with classes on hold until Tuesday, so it feels busier than usual. Bustling with freshmen and their protective parents, random family members knock into Harry's chair, little siblings and cousins run around the tables with croissants in their hands.

It’s irritating.

“Not a word,” Louis echoes Harry's thoughts, as he falls into the chair on Harry's right. He presses at his temples, kneads them a bit, and licks his dry, cracked lips.

Harry can only nod, as he lays his head down on his arms. He’s hung over and coming down from the K, after a fitful night’s sleep on Niall and Liam’s floor, his nightmares getting the better of him. Sometimes K can do that, can make you hallucinate even in your sleep. It also can make a person irritable, prickly, a bit on edge. Harry sure feels that way, when Louis accidentally nudges his foot under the table and he almost hisses at it.

They all had quite the end to their night, once Liam passed out at the party and needed to be carried back to his room. He was heavy as shit, total dead weight, and even more in shape than he was in the fall. His sessions with Harry sure paid off, much to their chagrin. Harry's back is sore from lifting him all the way from the Breckinridge building back to the dorms without getting caught by Wallace.

One by one the other boys join Harry and Louis, dropping into their seats like they were dead on their feet. Niall can barely open his eyes, even as he prepares his coffee with sugar and milk. Liam yawns over and over as he plows himself with food, probably in the same boat as Harry with the dreams and restless night of sleep. Zayn looks as perfect as ever, of course. But he too is hung over, popping Tylenol and Ibuprofen at the same time for his headache.

“So what are our plans?” Niall eventually asks, his nose up against the rim of his coffee cup.

“For what?” Louis wonders, clearly annoyed at the conversation since he asked for silence.

“The weekend,” Niall says back, annoyed at Lou’s tone.

“Dad and stepmom pick me up in an hour,” Liam intones as he takes a slow bite of bacon. “I’ll be home until late Monday.”

“I’m staying here,” Niall says. “Family couldn’t make it this time.”

“Me too,” Harry offers, his head still down on his arms. Gemma offered for him to come see her in the city, “to talk,” but since he didn’t have a car to get there, it didn’t seem possible. And it’s also not a conversation Harry feels like having just yet.

No one else says anything for a few minutes, the group of them too caught up in trying to live and breath again. And it’s in the silence that Harry hears more than ever, the way that Louis hasn’t spoken again and Zayn hasn’t at all. Too quiet.

Harry lifts his head up.

“What about you two?” he asks Louis and Zayn, who have their chins in their hands side by side.

“Jersey,” Louis says with a shrug. “Driving back soon.”

Zayn doesn’t respond.

“Zayn?” Harry presses, because this is getting ridiculous. Zayn hasn’t seen his family or been home in months, and if he tries to shrug it off yet again, Harry will throw himself to the floor and bang his head on the tiles, just to be a brat.

Zayn just jerks his head and gestures to Louis.

“Again?” Liam is the one to say it, scooting his chair back to lean his head on it. “Thought for sure your dad would want you to be home.”

“Yeah, well he doesn’t,” Zayn says with an edge to his voice, clearly annoyed at being asked where he’s going yet again.

“Why not?” Niall asks.

“He just doesn’t, okay?” Zayn huffs, pushing his chair away from the table entirely. “I’ll see you guys Monday.”

And with that, he stalks out of the dining hall without touching his food, with barely a backwards glance towards Harry at all. That must be what irks Harry the most, that even in the midst of whatever crisis he has going on, Zayn wouldn’t look at him or give him any indication that he was fine.

So Harry excuses himself gruffly, says he needs a Percocet, and exits the dining hall in search of Zayn fucking Malik. He first goes to Zayn's room, only to find it unlocked and empty. Then he thinks of the Jag sadly, and how that would be the next place to look. Zayn isn’t in the library, the den, or the showers.

Harry wonders where the hell he could possibly be, when it finally hits him. Zayn didn’t remove himself from the table to be alone. He removed himself so that Harry would chase after him so they could talk.

When Harry opens up his own dorm room door, he finds Jack sitting on his bed awkwardly holding a book. And on Harry's bed, sits Zayn with his arms crossed, head tilted to the floor.

“Can we have a minute?” Harry says to Jack as he quietly shuts the door behind him, toeing off his boots.

“I’m reading.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says viciously. “We need a minute alone.”

“This is my room too,” Jack mutters as he hops off his bed and tosses the book onto it. He gives Harry a very serious _don’t do anything while I’m gone_ sort of look, and Harry's cheeks flare red. He prays Zayn doesn’t notice.

Three seconds later, they’re alone.

Harry stares at Zayn and waits. He looks Zayn up and down and sees the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s tugging at the hair over his forehead, the dip to his frown. He looks upset, bursting at the seams, ready to explode with some emotion Harry can’t place.

Maybe it’s the K, but something inside Harry tells him to push. To prod.

Or maybe Harry really is just a brat.

“Are you ever going to tell me?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he sits on Jack’s bed and faces Zayn head on.

Zayn doesn’t respond.

“I know that this is what we do,” Harry continues, flicking a finger between the both of them, the space between them. “We lie and we keep secrets. We don’t tell the truth.”

Zayn just nods to the floor.

“You can lie to everyone else, you can keep secrets from the whole fucking world. But you can’t keep them from me. That’s not how this works,” Harry says, practically begging.

Zayn nods again like he agrees, but doesn’t say anything in return. Harry watches incredulously as Zayn sits there with his fucking mouth shut like always, and doesn’t say a word.

“Zayn,” Harry says gruffly, “come on.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll fucking hate me, that’s why,” Zayn explodes, finally looking up at Harry. “Okay? If I tell you why I can’t go home, you’ll fucking hate me.”

“Then why did you come here?” Harry gestures to his room, his arms flapping. “Why the fuck did you come in here if you can’t tell me the truth?”

“Because…” Zayn tries, tugging at his hair painfully. “I just…”

“Say it.”

Zayn stands up and begins to pace, just like he does whenever they’re in a stairwell hidden from the world. He shifts around with jilted movements, his hair in one hand, his other balled into a fist.

“ _Say_ it,” Harry repeats himself, chin tilting down.

Zayn finally turns to him once more, his ass perched on the heater below the window. He folds his hands together under his chin and exhales.

“I got kicked out,” Zayn admits, his eyes bouncing from Harry down to the floor. “We… it was a fight right before school started and I got kicked out.”

Harry stares at him.

“Why?” he asks.

It just sounds so unbelievable, for Zayn's father to make him leave their house. The Maliks are close, so fucking close, Zayn and his father more than anyone. Yaser was overly protective, stoic, the type of father Harry _wished_ he had. He always kept such a close eye on Zayn and his sisters, never let them out of his sight for long. He was stern of course, a little scary. But he was present, he actually picked Zayn up from F.M. himself some days, something barely any parent ever did. For most students, it’s always a driver, a nanny, an employee.

Harry just couldn’t fathom Zayn's father kicking him out.

Zayn exhales again, his lungs tight.

“He… caught me.”

Harry frowns, confused.

“Caught you how?” Harry's thoughts stray to the beer in Zayn's guest house, the sack of weed he gave Zayn for over the summer break. Zayn's vices.

Zayn looks up at him again, their eyes locking.

Harry could never hate Zayn, not really. But somehow that’s the emotion that surges through him in that moment. He’s not expecting it when Zayn gets up and sits on his bed to really lay it out.

“His name’s Fitch,” Zayn says quietly, his mouth wet and red from biting at it so much.

“Who?” Harry wonders, confused.

“The first… guy I was ever with.”

Harry blinks.

“He’s my dad’s business partner’s nephew from upstate,” Zayn says with a frown.

Harry blinks again. Confused. His fucked up mind even supplies him with a tire screeching sound, to halt his thoughts in their tracks. Because whatever he expected Zayn to say, it certainly wasn’t that. It’s not possible.

“Fitch,” Harry eventually responds, his hands sweating. “You and a guy. Named Fitch. Were together.”

Zayn nods.

“You and a guy,” Harry says it again, just to hear his own voice.

Zayn nods.

_I thought I was your first. I was supposed to be your first._

“What did you do?” Harry hears himself ask, his eyes scrunched together. “Tell me.”

“Harry…”

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t try to get out of this. Tell me,” Harry says as he stands up and begins to pace instead. _It’s not possible. I was supposed to be the first, I was the gay crisis, not some fucking guy named Fitch._

“It was nothing, it was… just some guy who had been hanging around the house. And I don’t know, he… he was nice to me and we had fun together. He – I saw him get out of the pool one day, he was all… wet, or whatever. And he looked me up and down, looked right through me, and I knew.”

“You knew what?”

“That… something was there.”

“So what, you fucked him? Or did he fuck you?” Harry hears himself ask again, his voice not even belonging to him anymore.

“No,” Zayn shakes his head, eyes big and round as they stare Harry down. “It was only…”

“Only what?”

“We kissed a few times.”

“That’s all?”

“And…” Zayn says as he pulls at his hair. “He went down on me. That… that’s what my dad saw, he saw him… get up off his knees afterwards. We were in the pool house and my dad walked in.”

Harry's brain short circuits at that. The thought of Zayn standing there against a wall, in the pool house Harry has visited a few times and gotten drunk in, with a boy between his legs. Like what they watched in the woods, Zayn had experienced it first hand on his own. With a stranger.

_I thought I was your first._

“Don’t be mad,” Zayn says with his hand suddenly up, reaching towards Harry. To come sit down with him on the bed, to touch and touch and touch. “Please don’t be mad.”

“This is unbelievable,” Harry whispers towards the windows where it’s started to snow again. He can hear kids and their parents out on the main lawn, walking to and from buildings to meet teachers and faculty, to spend time together.

“I just… that’s why I can’t go home. My father won’t speak to me, he’s still so angry, he thought… It’s just… That’s not the life he wanted for me.”

Harry's nostrils flare in anger as his eye twitches.

_This life._

_You’re gay and your father can’t stand you for it._

_You couldn’t look at me in the Jag because you were horrified of what he would think._

_You let me go through it all alone._

Harry can’t respond, can’t fathom what to say. He never imagined that this was why Zayn had been spending all of his time with Louis and his family, why he had to live on campus this year instead of at home.

But that was naïve of Harry. Because Foster Montgomery students are good at keeping secrets. Each and every person Harry passes, on any given day, is hiding something. It’s something Harry can’t believe he let himself forget, once it all comes out. How he himself has been keeping secrets ever since the year started: his thing with Zayn, the fact that Jack knows, not telling Gemma about it, the drugs he sells. Harry's built his little life around his secrets, protecting them with all his might.

So it shouldn’t surprise him that Zayn had a secret of his own.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Harry asks in a flat tone.

“I’m telling you now.”

“Yeah, because I wouldn’t leave it alone, yet again.”

Zayn frowns and stands up to join Harry near the window. He tries to reach his hand out, to brush Harry's hair out of his eyes, but Harry recoils from it. He backs away towards Jack’s side of the room and shakes his head.

He can’t be touched at the moment. Because once they touch, they’re done for. They’ll be entwined and kissing before Harry can even question if they should.

“I never said I was a virgin,” Zayn says quietly, his hand falling back to his side. “I never said that.”

Harry narrows his eyes.

“You just assumed I was new to this,” Zayn says.

“Yeah, you’re fucking right I assumed. Because you acted like I was a fucking _leper_ those first few times in the Jag. You could barely _look_ at me, let alone touch me. You acted like I forced it on you, like I was the one to make us do whatever it is we’re doing.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“You let me think we were together in this,” Harry shakes his head. “I thought we were both new, that we both needed to learn and grow together. And now… you did it all first. You did it without me.”

“Harry,” Zayn tries again to touch him, his hand reaching for Harry's fist.

“You should go,” Harry says, moving backwards yet again. “You need to get on the road.”

“Harry, don’t.”

Just then, a knock comes at the door. It opens and Niall pokes his head in, before calling out into the hallway that he found Harry and Zayn. Then in walks the three boys, like nothing could ever bother them. They all sit on Harry and Jack’s beds, kick their feet up, chatting about nothing. Clearly their breakfast helped their hang overs.

No one comments on the fact that Harry and Zayn had just been alone, standing together near Jack’s desk with stricken expressions on their faces. So Harry tries to play it cool, to school his face back into neutral territory. He perches himself on the edge of Jack’s desk and uncrosses his arms, tries to look normal. Zayn sits on the heater and does the same.

But they don’t offer anything into the conversation.

Louis is the first to notice, as always.

“What’s going on?” he says with narrowed eyes, pointing at each of them. “What’s happening here?”

Harry swallows and looks to the floor. _If you want to keep your fucking secret, than so be it, Zayn. I won’t stop you._

Zayn must make a decision. He steps up from the heater and squares his shoulders, ready to be honest.

“I just told Harry that I was kicked out of my house,” he says with a set jaw, looking to Louis.

“What?” Niall asks incredulously from Harry's bed. “Why?”

“It was… a fight. Just a fight. And I can’t go home.”

“Jesus,” Liam says as he pulls himself up from Jack’s bed. “That sucks, man. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods to the floor. “So… that’s all. That’s why I keep going home with Lou.”

“You knew about this?” Niall rounds on Louis, his face pinched. “Why didn’t anyone say?”

“It wasn’t my place to,” Louis shrugs, crossing his arms.

Harry looks up at Zayn once more, pissed all over again at Louis knowing something he didn’t. Louis knowing the truth when Harry was kept in the dark for months.

But Zayn shakes his head slightly, a warning look, to say _Louis doesn’t know the real story, Louis doesn’t know why I had to leave, keep your mouth shut._

And because Harry is good at keeping secrets, he does. He snaps his jaw closed and looks away, too upset to stare at Zayn's perfect profile any longer. He lets the boys discuss it amongst themselves, how crazy it’s been for Zayn to not be under his father’s thumb for once. How they should’ve realized before that Zayn hadn’t been going home at all. How Zayn has been acting weird the last few months.

_We both have been acting weird. Together._

_It’s all been an act._

Something in Harry snaps, and he’s not sure why or where it comes from. It’s like one second he’s there on Jack’s side of the room, processing the fact that Zayn has had another boy’s mouth on him. And then the next, he’s standing in the middle of the room with his arms down at his sides. Staring at his closet. Eyes set.

“What?” Niall asks, poking Harry's leg with his foot, as they all begin to notice Harry acting strange.

“What is it?” Louis asks as well, uncrossing his arms.

Over near the window, even from a few feet away, Harry can sense the tension rolling off of Zayn. He can feel it like it’s a real, tangible thing. Because Zayn knows he’s about to do it before he does it.

Harry blinks and then looks at Louis.

“I’m gay.”

It’s another sound of screeching tires somewhere in the depths of Harry's mind. Even he can’t believe he said it, just laid it out there like it weighed nothing. He looks to Louis, Niall and Liam individually, to catch their confused expressions. And he very distinctly ignores Zayn over his shoulder.

“You’re… gay,” Louis says, his eyes unsure.

“Yes,” Harry says with a sure nod.

“Like, gay gay?” Liam asks from Jack’s bed, his fingers scratching at the back of his neck.

“Yep, pretty gay,” Harry says with a slight smile.

“Wow,” Niall intones from Harry's bed, his hand slapping at Louis like he can’t believe it, like he’s saying _can you fucking believe it?_

“Yeah, so that’s… that. I’m gay. I’ve known for a while now, and it’s… that’s me. And I don’t want to keep it a secret anymore. I want you to know who I am,” Harry says with another nod. “I want to be honest.”

_For once._

It’s Niall who gets up first and stands in front of Harry. Niall, their resident dad, who enjoys a tradition, a speech, a here-here, makes sure to grab Harry by both arms. He kisses Harry on both cheeks and whispers he’s proud.

And then it’s Louis and Liam, both giving Harry big hugs. Louis even smacks Harry's ass a bit, to let him know he did good. That he recognizes it takes a lot to stand up and declare to the world who you are.

_I’m out._

_I did it._

Harry can’t help but smile as his three friends crowd around him and congratulate him. Niall swears he never saw it coming, while at the same time Louis says he knew it all along. They let Louis have that lie, since he’s probably the most surprised out of any of them, and clearly never saw Harry as being gay before that very moment. It’s best to let Louis have whatever he wants.

Zayn stays suspiciously quiet, just as Harry suspected he would. Harry's officially told their friends about himself, and now Zayn is the alone one. _Let you see how it feels_ , Harry thinks viciously.

“Alright, well,” Louis says as he heads towards the door, his hands on his hips. “Glad that’s over.”

Harry snorts at that, the sentimentality getting the better of Louis as always.

“I gotta go too,” Liam says, hugging Harry one more time for good measure.

“Zayn?” Louis finally acknowledges him, turning towards Zayn at the window, Niall and Liam filing out ahead of him.

Zayn stands there with his arms crossed, face set like it’s made of concrete. Marble, is what Harry usually likens it to. And now is no different. To anyone looking at Zayn, he might just come off as stoic like his father, composed, calm and collected.

But Harry knows Zayn better than anyone these days, and Harry knows he’s furious. Completely furious at Harry giving away half of their secret, half of what they’ve been up to, even without saying so.

Harry stares at Zayn and prays to god he says something tangible, something Harry can take comfort in. Anything.

But as always, Zayn doesn’t say a word unprompted.

Harry can’t help but sneer.

“Have a good weekend, Zayn,” Harry ends up saying, his eyes in slits, back facing the boys so they won’t see.

Zayn blinks at the floor. And then looks up at Harry's face.

“You too,” he finally mutters, moving towards the door. And then, as they lock eyes, “Congratulations.”

And with that, Zayn is gone.

 

***


	4. “Wondering where you are?”

Harry decides to clean his side of the room.

First, he organizes his desk, makes sure his laptop is where it should be right in the center, with his pens on the right, Post Its on the left, and his lamp positioned just so. Instead of sending out for it, he does his laundry for himself in the basement laundry room. Whites, colors, underwear and socks. Then he does the closet: instead of having his shirts in order according to designer, or by arm length, he decides to have it all in order by color. It’s as he’s sliding two almost-identical Marc Jacobs shirts across the bar at the top of his closet that he realizes most of his wardrobe lately has been muted greys, blacks, and whites. So really, he needs a trip into the city soon, to buy some new shirts with a definite pop of color, something for spring to really make him stand out.

Because god forbid Harry fade into the background.

Normally when faced with a negative emotion, or one that’s too overwhelming, Harry throws it at the world instead of feeling it. He gets rid of it, erases it, disposes of it. He crumples it up like an old piece of notebook paper and throws it away. On any given day, he’s not sad, angry, envious. He’s happy. Gemma always said to be good, to force it, if they had to.

But the longer the weekend goes on, the lonelier and more isolated he becomes. With Jack’s absence and after ignoring Niall and a few buyers, the worse he feels. He can’t force happiness, he can’t seem to rid himself of the negative emotions, when instead they come hurtling into his room at warped speed, intent on killing him from the inside out. He feels everything all at once: rage, resentment, jealousy, sadness. In that order.

The angry feeling consumes him first, as he rearranges his sock drawer and thinks about how much of an asshole Zayn is. How he hid a huge secret from Harry, made Harry feel like he was alone in their thing all over again, let another boy touch him all those months ago. That might be the worst thought of all, the jealousy, the thing that makes Harry stop every so often to press at his temples and breathe: Zayn had someone else before Harry, he had some random guy beneath his hands, in his mouth, all over him. He let someone else in, let himself be consumed by another boy, and Harry was just a consolation prize. Second in line. Second best.

That’s the sadness. It’s Harry wondering over and over if he’s second tier.

But then there are disbelieving moments where Harry feels like a feather could knock him over sideways, at the fact that he’s out. That he was brave and said what needed to be said to the boys. He thinks about it often over the weekend, the way the boys were so supportive. Or the way Zayn set his face as it happened, to be calm and collected. Harry tries to think of Zayn's feelings as well, tries to put himself in Zayn's shoes. And he sort of gets it now, that Zayn was furious at Harry telling the room half their secret, sure. But he was also deeply saddened that he couldn’t say the same for himself. He was still too consumed with guilt over going against his father’s wishes. He was defeated. But he did say “congratulations.” Even as upset as he was, Zayn wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it. Underneath it all, maybe Zayn was sort of happy for him.

That’s when Harry feels guilty. Ashamed at what he did, to get back at Zayn in such a heated moment.

But then it all leads back to a swirl of various overwhelming emotions again, namely frustration at how Harry still has to keep a part of himself hidden, for Zayn's sake. How he’s alone, lonely, and also responsible for making Zayn watch him out himself to their friends and not be able to say the same for himself. Harry also fucking _misses_ Zayn, because how could he not? It’s Zayn. It’s them. Regardless of how they’re both feeling at the moment, Harry knows they’ll come back together again and figure something out. They have to.

So Harry tries to sit with it all, tries to process the thoughts as they come to him, in a strict order because Harry likes things in order. He’s angry, of course, and tries to work on it as he lines his shoes up in his closet. But he’s also sad, _nineteen sucks,_ overcome with nerves, and anxious for Zayn's return. He needs them to talk, to really talk, without being interrupted by the boys or anyone else.

Harry finishes up the evening before everyone is set to return, exhausted at having organized his entire room, Jack’s side included. He tries to focus, to really focus on what is to come tomorrow, because he has a lot to say and own up to. And maybe somewhere deep down, he knows he has to listen, too.

 

\---

 

They say one shouldn’t assume anything. And Harry definitely should’ve remembered the old saying, “an ass out of you and me,” or whatever it is. Because he assumed he’d have to wait on Zayn the next day, for him to find Harry in some solitary moment, tucked away by the pool again, or maybe in a darkened stairwell. He assumed Zayn would take a few beats, to settle back into the routine of school and seek him out once he had a few choice words lined up. He assumed he had more time.

Harry was not expecting Zayn to come bounding into his room that same night with fire in his eyes and his nostrils flaring.  

_Thank god Jack isn’t back._

“I should punch you, Harry Styles,” is what Zayn starts with, his hands in fists down at his sides.

Harry, sitting at his desk in nothing but pajama bottoms, turns in his chair and stares at Zayn with wide eyes. Zayn and Louis weren’t due back until the next evening, Monday night before classes started up again. And yet here he stands, in Calvin Klein sweatpants and loafers, a soft grey Armani t-shirt, and his messy hair shoved under a backwards baseball hat. He looks strung out, like he hasn’t slept in days, like he’s still hung over like on Saturday morning.

Harry's almost positive that Zayn isn’t on any drugs at the moment, so it has to be from true lack of sleep. Maybe he’s been “cleaning” the past few days as well, completely at the mercy of his hot-headed emotions, same as Harry.

_We’re so alike._

In that moment, as they stare each other down, Zayn's words hanging in the air, something in Harry deflates. The feelings he’s kept bottled up in his tiny dorm room since their last interaction seep out under the door into the hallway, through the cracks in the blinds, up towards the ceiling to dissipate like smoke.

Harry takes in Zayn's anger, and knows exactly what is to come. And he’s prepared to take the hit.

“Okay,” he says, nodding towards Zayn's fists. _I’ll let you._

“Okay what?”

“Okay you can hit me.”

Zayn blinks a few times, like maybe he’s forgotten what he even said when he burst into the room like a bull in a china shop.

He remembers and then rolls his eyes.

“Oh, grow up, Harry,” he says with a huff. “I’m not actually going to hit you. I just should, is all.”

“Oh.”

“Because you’re a fucking brat and you deserve it.”

Harry nods because he sort of does deserve it. Within the confines of his room the last two days, even in the midst of the swirling emotions he’s tried to process, the guilt has been the most prevalent and in his face. Guilt because he was wrong, was in the wrong the whole time, and now he has to own it.

He nods for Zayn to keep going.

“You kept asking,” Zayn says as he begins to pace the room back and forth, “and you kept pressing at it, ‘why can’t you go home, Zayn, why do you keep going with Lou?’ And I kept ignoring you because I should fucking ignore you all the time, to be honest.”

Harry bites his lip.

“But I didn’t want to lie to you anymore, I wanted to be honest with _you_ at least, so I told you. And that meant having to tell you about Fitch.”

Harry's eye twitches at the name, but he keeps quiet. He folds his arms over his bare chest, suddenly cold.

“I didn’t think you’d be that angry, I thought you’d be more surprised and maybe… I guess _maybe_ I thought you’d be a little jealous.”

“I was,” Harry mumbles, wiping at his nose. “I _am_.”

Zayn just blinks at him.

“ _That_ was supposed to be what our fight was about, Harry,” Zayn says as he paces again. “ _That_ was supposed to be our argument: I was an ass for not telling you about my life sooner, and you were supposed to be a jealous prick. We were supposed to fight and make up and that was it.”

Harry frowns, confused.

“But no, you have to be all fucking theatrical about it and invite the boys in. I could tell what you were about to do, so I told them the truth too even though I really didn’t want to. And then you tell them you’re fucking gay!”

“I didn’t invite them in,” Harry hears himself argue. “They invited themselves in.”

“Shut up,” Zayn glares at him, basically telling Harry it’s not his turn to talk yet.

Harry clenches his teeth together.

“You were mad at me, and to get back at me, you told them you’re gay. You just did it, just said it, like it was nothing. How… you’re too fucking impulsive, Harry. You should’ve thought it through.”

Harry keeps his jaw tight and locked, for fear of jumping up and defending himself. He can feel the anger and resentment from the weekend trying to spill over, and he needs to keep himself contained for now.

So he blinks.

“What if you weren’t ready? What if you… how do you even know if you’re ready anyways, what do… I mean, is there a sign or something?” Zayn says as he flips his hat off onto Harry's bed so he can grab at his hair, eyes up at the ceiling. “You just said it and didn’t think about the consequences or what they’d think or what anyone will think. What if they tell people?”

Harry hears himself say _so what?_ in his head, but continues to keep silent. Something tells him this is a tangent Zayn needs to get out, not for Harry, but for himself. He’s speaking to himself, and Harry needs to keep his mouth shut.

Zayn ends up standing in the middle of the room, his hand tugging at the front of his hair down over his eyes it’s so long, and stares off into space. Like maybe he’s contemplating that day again and what Harry did. How Harry did it. How it was as easy as breathing, and Zayn couldn’t say the same for himself, not yet.

In the silence, Harry can’t help it. From his desk chair, he reaches a hand out and grabs Zayn's right fingers and squeezes.

The pressure must make Zayn remember where he is, because he wrenches his hand away like he’s been burned. He backs away towards Jack’s bed and stares at Harry with unblinking eyes.

“I’m pissed at you,” Zayn says with weighted words, his face set. “I’m fucking pissed at you for being pissed at me. Don’t you get that?”

“Zayn…”

“I was honest with you and you punished me for it. _Two_ of us came out that day, Harry. _Two_ of us were outed. Do you know how hard that was for me, to tell you about what I did, the things I thought were a one-off before you came along, about who I am? And you made my entire experience about _you_ and _your_ feelings. You made me feel sick all weekend, thinking I lied to you all year and hurt you. But I finally realized that it’s not fair. You don’t get to be pissed at me for hiding something that I can barely say out loud.”

It hits Harry clean across the face like a slap. _Two of us came out._

“I wish I could be like you. I wish I could be proud to be myself, I wish I didn’t have to keep secrets and hide who I really am. But my father _cannot know_. This cannot get back to him.”

“I know.”

“I’m private, Harry. I’ve always been private, even with you and the boys.”

“I know.”

“There isn’t going to be some big outing with me, not any time soon. I won’t do what you did, get in a fight with you and then tell people about my personal life, just to spite you. That’s not me, that’ll never be me.”

Harry feels that like a slap too. He finally stands up and gets close to Zayn, as close as Zayn will allow even in the charged moment. He doesn’t touch Zayn's hand again or reach out to tuck his hair behind his ear. He just stands near Zayn, feels his body heat, smells his cologne, takes in the fact that their magnetism will eventually get the better of them yet again.

“I’m so sorry,” he ends up whispering, his lip quivering. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You should be,” Zayn says, crossing his arms.

“I promise I am.”

“I know I should’ve told you sooner,” Zayn relents slightly, angling his body towards Harry, _a good sign_. “But you were supposed _get_ it. You were supposed to… to realize how hard it’s been to be away from my dad, my whole family, to feel so alone this year. And you – you were supposed to be supportive about me being open about it.”

“I am,” Harry says with a vengeance, nodding like a mad man. “And I do get it now. You… you’ve had it really rough being here, but you are who you are, and you had those experiences, and you told me. You said it and you did it, babe.”

_You’re out, even if it’s just to me. That means something. I’m a dick for not recognizing it before, but I get it now._

Zayn just bites his lip and looks down at the floor between their feet.

Harry can feel the anger dissipate from Zayn, can practically see it float away somewhere. So that’s why he chances it, that’s why he grabs for both of Zayn's hands and holds tight. _I know these hands._

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again quietly.

“Good.”

“And you are not alone, don’t you forget that.”

Zayn nods, overwhelmed. He finally looks up at Harry and quirks his lip, like maybe he doesn’t have anything else to say and can’t believe he said so much as it is. Zayn, their stoic, quiet one, up against Harry's brash, erratic one. He’s used up a lot of energy.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” Zayn ends up saying, almost knocking Harry clean off his feet. “Even when I was pissed, I was… happy for you, for being able to say it.”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, squeezing Zayn's fingers.

They stand there in the silence, Harry holding onto Zayn for dear life. He’s not sure where they are now, where they leave this conversation, that is until Zayn actually holds Harry's hands in return. Squeezes Harry's fingers too.

_We’re in this. We’ll be okay._

As if to prove him right, Zayn nudges Harry's cheek with his nose and exhales.

“Can we be done now? Can we stop fighting?”

“Yes,” Harry says on a swift exhale of his own, moving in until their lips touch.

It’s a crazed kiss, with teeth and biting, after days of being without a hit. Harry grabs for Zayn's face and holds him close, makes sure there isn’t even air between them anymore. Zayn gives it just as good, licks at Harry's mouth, tugs on the hair along his neck with one hand, while the other grabs for the little bit of pudge sticking out of the top of Harry’s pajama bottoms.

Harry is out. And Zayn is too, to Harry. In that room, in the middle of the two of them, they’re both the same. In it together. Two boys with the world out in front of them, completely at the mercy of the unknown, with real experiences under their belts.

Harry savors it and kisses Zayn harder.

 

\---

 

At around two a.m., even after swearing to himself that he wouldn’t fall asleep, Harry is roused awake when a warm body slides into his bed. He blinks the tiredness from his eyes, tries to adjust them to the moonlight streaming in through the window. Zayn crowds up behind him and winds an arm around his midsection, a cool hand pressing into Harry's bare stomach to say _I’m here, I’m back, I missed you._

Harry grabs for that hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles to say _I’m glad you’re here, you’ll never be alone, I missed you too._

Zayn noses at Harry's neck, his mouth hot and harsh along Harry's hairline, and Harry immediately gets an erection. It’s like he can’t help it when Zayn's this close, this open and willing to be affectionate, the way his body immediately reacts. Zayn must react the same way, since Harry very distinctly feels Zayn's cock fill up against his ass right then and there. Harry inhales at that, his body suddenly rigid he wants it so bad, something, anything. Whatever Zayn wants to give.

When they parted earlier, there wasn’t any promise of this or anything happening between them that night. It was Harry's idea, since Jack wouldn’t be back until the next afternoon, to spend the night together and just sleep side by side. He placed a soft kiss to the high point of Zayn's cheekbone and told him to sneak out after Louis fell asleep, to come sleep in his bed and have some time to just _be_. No fighting, no more words thrown around, just them and the quiet of F.M.’s campus outside Harry's window. A few hours of nothing. Just peace.

But now they’re both hard. They’re in Harry's bed, completely alone for the whole night, and Harry wants it. He wants everything with Zayn.

Maybe Zayn can read his mind yet again, because he tenses up behind Harry. He stops kissing at Harry's neck and instead rests his forehead against Harry's shoulder and exhales a sharp breath. They’re painfully alone and anything could happen.

Harry's not sure what he was expecting, his mind suddenly drifting to the condoms and lube in his bag. But he’s caught off guard when he feels Zayn relax and nod into his back. Like he’s decided something. Zayn's hand slowly makes its way south towards the elastic of Harry’s pajama bottoms and Harry swears his heart almost fucking stops.

“You gonna let me?” Zayn exhales in a whisper, his mouth up at the shell of Harry's ear.

Harry slams his eyes shut, his cock spurting pre come into his pants, as he nods. So this is what they’re going to do. This is where the night has taken them.

Harry keeps nodding as Zayn's fingers skirt the top of his pants, the longer they linger. There are so many things to still learn about Zayn, but Harry knows now that Zayn gets off on asking Harry heated questions when they’re like this. And he loves when Harry can barely respond coherently.

Zayn moves them so Harry's on his back, so he can kiss Harry first and then mouth down at his neck again. Harry gets overwhelmed immediately, way too fast, as Zayn moves his way down towards his chest and belly button.

Maybe they both realize at the same time that this is Zayn's first time, that this really is something he’s never done before, not with any other boy. Just Harry. _Just me._ Because Zayn does that thing where he lays his forehead down on Harry's hipbone and inhales a few times, like he’s trying to catch his breath, get his bearings, figure out what led him to this place on this night.

Harry threads his fingers through Zayn's ever-growing hair and lets him know it’s alright. They didn’t have any promises tonight, it doesn’t have to be a thing. They can just kiss and rub one off together like they have many times before.

Harry closes his eyes even, and waits for Zayn to make his way back up to his face, to kiss him again and explain with his hands that it’s all he can give at the moment. Harry is ready for it.

And then swift as anything, Zayn yanks down Harry's pajama bottoms and rests the head of Harry's cock against his plump lower lip.

Harry gasps.

It’s so hot to the touch. It’s like in the woods, when their wrists touched. It’s skin touching skin, and they’re scorching.

Harry almost bucks up into it, he’s so surprised. He looks down and groans at the feel of Zayn's tongue flicking against his slit, the way he tastes Harry for the first time.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Harry grunts, his hand awkwardly flailing against the side of Zayn's head.

Zayn is timid at first, the way he initially guides Harry towards his mouth, like he can’t decide how to do it. He licks his lips a few times and then goes for the head first, sucks on it like a popsicle or ice cream, a little too fast. It has Harry hissing, the slight sensation of teeth, and then Zayn's whispering an apology.

Harry can just make it out in the moonlight, the way Zayn's sprawled on the lower half of his bed, his own erection pressed into the mattress. He came to Harry's room in just boxers and a thin t-shirt, which has started to ride up his chest. Harry stares at Zayn's bare lower back, the perch of his ass, the way he squirms against the bed as he fucking blows Harry into space. Then he zones back in on Zayn's face, the perfect suction to his cheeks, one hand wrapped around Harry's dick like a lifeline.

Harry knows that Zayn likes when he talks or gives encouragement, so right when the tip of Harry's cock bumps into the back of Zayn's throat, Harry gives in. He uses the words Zayn used for him to get him off, since it worked so well.

“Yes babe, that’s so good,” he whispers, fingers moving Zayn's hair away from his sweaty forehead. “Fuck, you’re so good.”

Zayn preens at the compliments, Harry can practically see the heat rising in his cheeks and neck, so he keeps going.

“So fucking good, so good, babe,” he babbles, not even sure of the words formulating in his mouth. “You feel so good.”

Zayn sucks harder, his fingers tightening around the base of Harry's dick. Harry's eyes begin to water at the sensation, like Zayn is practically pulling the come out of him. And he lets it happen, lets his head fall back just for a few moments, to really relish in the fact that he has a boy sucking his dick for the first time. It’s a beautiful thing, to yet again _be gay_ while being gay. Zayn, beautiful, effervescent Zayn, with a mouth like sin, has Harry's dick between his lips. _Fuck you Fitch, you never had this and you never will._

Maybe Zayn thinks something along those lines as well, because he presses his right elbow down into the mattress and gives himself some leverage, to move up over Zayn's groin a bit more to really bob his head up and down. Harry curses.

Suddenly Harry gets a random thought, something he’d never dare try with a girl. So he tries it out, just a little, to pump his hips up and see how it feels. To fuck into Zayn's mouth. That has Zayn swatting at his stomach tetchily, his mouth still full, so Harry giggles and stops.

“Sorry,” he whispers with a smile, before immediately cursing again as Zayn swirls his tongue around the head like a goddamn tease.

Zayn pulls off messily, a string of saliva connecting them for only a second.

“How do you want it?” Zayn whispers in response, his lungs heaving like he’s just run a marathon. He swipes a hand along his mouth to rid away the spit, as Harry stares at him like he’s the eighth Wonder of the World.

“What?” Harry has to shake his head and ask, distracted by Zayn's messy mouth, the hair in his eyes, his completely debauched appearance.

Zayn must know how he looks, because he smirks.

It causes Harry's dick to literally jump against his thigh.

“Do you want to come in my mouth?” Zayn whispers a little louder.

Harry's brain short circuits because he didn’t think he had a choice in the matter and now that he does, honestly, how does he respond? How does one choose such a thing? He could come down Zayn's throat just like how Zayn did to him, and it would be beautiful, of course. It would feel amazing. But maybe he could come in Zayn's hand, so that they could kiss at the same time, and Harry could… taste himself, maybe.

But then it comes to him in a fit of beautiful self-reflection, of what he wants to do. Of what he’s always wanted to do, ever since they started this thing between them. When they were in the woods and saw someone else getting their dick sucked, when their wrists touched and suddenly the world made sense.

Harry pulls at Zayn's t-shirt so that he can kiss him, really can taste himself a bit, and then he’s pushing Zayn down to the floor. Zayn smirks again and gets it, falls to his knees on the floor of Harry's little dorm room, and positions himself at the edge of the bed. Harry throws his legs off the side of the bed until his feet are planted firmly on the floor and leans back on his hands so he can watch again.

Zayn once again takes Harry into his mouth and sucks long and hard, has Harry hissing for about the billionth time. And then he really gets into it, bobbing his head up and down to get a good rhythm. Harry grunts through it, his cock hitting the back of Zayn's throat over and over, and his eyes really do cross.

“Zayn, I’m…” he tries to say, the faster Zayn goes, the more into it he gets.

He’s so close, so excruciatingly close, that he has to curl his toes on the floor to keep himself from launching into the fucking ceiling.

Zayn doesn’t stop, he just keeps going, tightens his fingers around the base and sucks Harry off like he was born to do it.

Harry eventually swats at Zayn's shoulder, ready for his release. He hurries to sit up on the edge of the bed and takes his cock in his hand to jerk himself off rough and fast, like he used to in the Jag. And because Zayn Malik knows Harry better than anyone ever has, he grabs Harry by the thighs and gets his face close to Harry's closed fist.

He looks up at Harry and opens his mouth, lays his tongue flat out.

Harry loses his breath and his rhythm slightly, until he’s not really thinking, because he’s coming. He comes in silence, as stripes of it hit Zayn's tongue, his cheekbone, his top lip. A few drops even fly up into his perfectly disheveled hair, along his hairline, down his chin. Harry can barely believe how messy it is, how disgusting he is for wanting this, and yet it’s all he ever wants to do for the rest of his life. Come all over Zayn's pretty, perfect face.

When he’s finished, it’s like his entire body deflates all at once. He tries to breathe, to find a light at the end of the tunnel, his eyes closed towards the ceiling.

Zayn's voice brings him back down.

“Good god,” Zayn says into the quiet of the room, his hands still on Harry's thighs, smiling.

Harry's head drops down to his chest and he can’t help but smile lazily.

“Sorry,” he huffs out.

Harry's sorry for a lot of things lately, especially between them the last few days. But he can’t seem to be really sorry for this, not even a little bit. And his smile must give him away. Because Zayn rolls his eyes and holds a hand out for a towel or something to clean himself off with.

They crawl back into bed together, giggling into each other’s mouths, their legs intertwined until Zayn's coming in Harry's hand. And it’s then that Harry's heart cracks into two distinct pieces, so sure he’s in love and done for.

_I love you. I love you and someday I’m going to tell you._

Spent, Zayn kisses at Harry's temple. He closes his eyes, sighing.

“Happy belated birthday, babe,” he says in a whisper, practically asleep already.

Harry closes his own eyes and tries to relax his breathing. The same thought occurs to him, the one that won’t seem to go away.

_You’re going to be the death of me._

 

\---

 

It’s quite the surprise when time moves at a glacial pace for the next month. The days feel long, the nights even longer, and many F.M. students get a nasty cold that won’t seem to let up. It makes the entire school feel even more insulated than normal.

Unlike a few months before when it all seemed to be in overdrive, time slows. Individual classes don’t pass by in the blink of an eye and instead start to feel like they’ll never end. More often than not, when he should most be paying attention to his teachers, Harry catches himself daydreaming. Like in Chem II every day, his aimless thoughts somehow become sountracked by Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” on a continuous loop. Those thoughts are almost always of the Zayn Malik variety, of course. But Harry tries not to dwell on them. _Tries_ , being the operative word.

As spring approaches, the seniors begin to really look ahead. Harry can see it happening before his very eyes: the switch being flipped from the basic thought of “get through high school” to the more exciting “high school is almost over, just make it to the end.” Teachers begin to map out their last few months of lesson plans, the seniors start flipping the pages in their planners to get excited for the spring dance, spring break, senior prom in May, and eventually graduation. It’s all right there on the horizon, the end of their senior year suddenly in sight.

But luckily for Harry, it doesn’t seem to come at him too fast. The end of the year crawls at a steady pace, just a parade of selling to his regulars, sitting in class until he’s bored to tears, and kissing Zayn in the pool house most nights. It’s become a little ritual, since they don’t have the Jag: meet up after hours, once Louis and Jack are asleep, to make out and jerk each other off under the bleachers next to the pool. They don’t talk much or delve into their feelings, they don’t acknowledge that school is slowly but surely winding down, and where in the world does that leave them? It’s just body heat and slick tongues, over and over.

Harry has only been caught by Wallace sneaking back into the dorms once, so it’s working out quite well.

The only snag in the month of February is the fact that Harry barely talks to Gemma. She had some choice words for him, once they finally got on the phone and discussed the Zayn situation. She couldn’t believe Harry kept the secret from her, since they always promised no secrets. She also couldn’t fathom how in the world Harry could fall for a “straight boy.”

 Harry lets her believe that. He’s still so good at keeping the important details hidden, very used to keeping secrets by now, so he doesn’t let Gemma know that Zayn is gay. That’s not his story to tell.

Mostly Harry just goes with the flow. He takes cues from those around him, floats in and out of classrooms and parties, and levels himself on the high of being with Zayn for an extended period of time. They’ve been a thing for weeks, and it doesn’t seem to be slowing down, so Harry takes it in as it comes. He resolutely ignores the fact that graduation is on the distant horizon, and instead focuses on the day to day.

Harry isn’t so sure he has a future, not anything solid or tangible, so he pretends like high school is all there is.

_My thoughts create my world._

 

\---

 

“So who is the hottest guy in our class, then?” Niall asks one night as they all lounge around Louis and Zayn's room, pretending to study.

Harry snorts from Lou’s bed, where he’s on his back with his feet propped up on the wall right under an F.M. flag, tennis ball in hand. The rest of the boys also snicker, since Niall has recently become obsessed with asking Harry questions about his newfound gayness.

Apparently it’s very important to him to not only be a solid ally, but also to hear that he is attractive in the eyes of a gay man. So it’s quite the leading question.

Zayn Malik is the real answer, of course. Not that Harry says so.

“You are,” Harry relents, tossing the tennis ball at the wall and catching it. “You are the most handsome boy at this school, Niall. I’m lucky to have you.”

Niall scoffs at that, since he wants a “real answer.”

But Zayn quickly changes the subject to their recent tattoos and the ones he needs to finish on them, which has Harry narrowing his eyes. He quirks his head to the side, to see Zayn sitting at his desk with his stats book. Zayn doesn’t give himself away, just as good as ever, but there’s an annoyed look there, Harry can tell. They lock eyes and Harry smirks.

_Jealous, babe?_

Zayn does not look impressed, which has Harry laughing out loud.

It’s been good having the boys know about him, all things considered. They’re supportive, have asked all the right questions, and definitely want what is best for Harry. Niall makes sure Harry knows he just wants him to feel included, when they sit around and talk about girls. Liam has in so few words expressed that if anyone ever fucks with Harry about being gay, he’ll beat the shit out of them. And Louis just says over and over that he knew all along, that he always could tell Harry had a little something tucked in his pocket for safe keeping. Zayn doesn’t say much of anything, as per usual.

None of them have spoken about it around their other friends though, and no one else at F.M. knows yet. Harry isn’t sure why they’ve kept it contained to their little group, since he certainly didn’t say it had to stay between them. But it’s been sort of nice. He already has enough eyes on him as it is, as the only dealer in school. He doesn’t need another reason to stand out, not yet.

 Someone pokes at the top of Harry's head with the edge of a book, which has him hissing in pain, since his mind had wandered off.

“What?” he asks, rubbing at the crown of his head.

“Zayn says you’re up. Time to finish that rose tattoo,” Liam says as his hand joins Harry's to rub at his head, before leaning down to kiss at it.

That’s another thing: the boys have continued to be just as affectionate as ever, probably to prove to Harry that they’re not weird about it and still want just as many hugs as ever.

Zayn still doesn’t partake in that often, as per usual.

But Harry's used to it now. He saves his touching of Zayn for quiet, private moments. Like under the table in the dining hall, when he’ll squeeze Zayn's fingers every so often, to show he’s paying attention. Or the way he tugs at Zayn's lapels before class, when the boys aren’t looking, or to straighten Zayn’s tie when they are. Zayn takes it all in stride, trying his best not to be weird about the affection too.

All in all, the four boys have been very supportive. It’s a great feeling.

Harry goes to settle himself on Zayn's bed like always, the movements as normal as breathing these days. Luckily none of their teachers have noticed the growing tattoo count on the four of the five of them, Niall still being too afraid of the needle to do it himself. Harry has an anchor on his wrist, the word TOE on his big toe, and a pair of hands shaking hands on the back of his arm. And those were all done just within the last week. Zayn's other appointments for F.M. students have slowed down slightly, ever since Storm Harrington’s mother caught him with a fresh tattoo on his bicep and called the school. Storm didn’t reveal where or when he got the tattoo, so Zayn was safe. They’re all just a bit more careful when it comes to showing up at Zayn's door, asking for more ink, is all.

But now it’s time to finally finish up the rose Zayn had started for Harry all those weeks ago, the one on the upper part of his forearm. Once they do the last bit of shading, it’ll look perfect. A perfect rose drawn by a perfect boy.

Harry settles on the unmade bed, using one of Zayn's shirts as a pillow. Zayn rolls around on his desk chair, organizing the gun, the pots of ink, the towel he wipes away the excess with. He catches Harry ogling him, the look on his face probably as obscene as it’s ever been, and he rolls his eyes.

“Get a grip, H,” Zayn says with a slight sigh, snapping on his gloves.

“Thank you for finishing it,” Harry says with a wide smile, moving his arm to the bed. “I love it already.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You ever going to let me pay you?” Harry wonders, right as the hot needle presses into his skin.

Zayn, probably still thinking of the way Harry had just undressed him with his eyes, looks over his shoulder to make sure the other boys are preoccupied passing around and taking hits from Harry's good weed. Then he turns back to Harry, shaking his head like he can’t believe the words he’s saying.

“Oh, you’ll pay me,” he nods, wiping at Harry's arm with the towel.

Harry, caught off guard at the flirting, actually holds a hand to his chest in shock.

“Mr. Malik,” he whispers, “was that a come-on?”

Zayn just snorts and continues working on the rose.

Harry puts his other hand behind his head and smiles at the ceiling. He’ll definitely pay Zayn for it later, probably on his knees under the bleachers again.

He doesn’t mind.

 

\---

 

It’s Malone sisters’ idea, Jessica and her younger sister Kim, to throw a party in the dance studio on the east side of campus in the arts building. Jessica is the captain of the dance team and quite the party planner, which they realize once they step into the large room full of mirrors and see black and white streamers and balloons lining the ceiling. It’s not often that F.M. students decorate their parties, since they’re fairly careful about getting caught and try to keep it mostly low key and transportable.

But Jessica and her sophomore sister Kim stand there with their hands on their slender hips and smile, like they could care less if they get caught the next morning. The party will be worth it, and their parents can just make a call anyways, to smooth it over. Jessica welcomes the five boys into the party by handing over blue Solo cups to fill with the alcohol of their choice, kissing each of their cheeks as they enter.

“Cheers boys,” Niall intones a few minutes later, once they make their way to the grand piano in the corner, the one where all the alcohol is placed.

Harry busies himself with mixing together vodka and cranberry juice, his drink of choice lately. Niall and Louis stick with beer, Liam opts out of alcohol entirely since he had two hits of K in his room before they left, and Zayn goes right for the tequila. He fills up a huge cup of it, throws some ice in, and that’s that.

Harry narrows his eyes slightly.

Zayn Malik and Gran Patron Silver do not a happy union make.

“You good?” Harry mumbles to him as Zayn takes a rather large swig from his cup.

Zayn doesn’t respond, just nods a quick yes, and then heads over to a group of girls in the other corner, to say hello. Harry watches idly as the boys also begin to congregate with the other seniors and a few juniors, before he gets caught up in selling a dozen pills and joints to the sophomore friends of Kim. They don’t know any better, don’t know the right questions to ask, so Harry sort of has to guide them through it.

“Only take one,” he warns a thin, awkward boy who looks like he just turned fifteen, handing him a white pill. “And please don’t go anywhere other than this room. Stick close to your friends.”

The boy nods like he hears this speech every day, almost as if he’s saying _duh_ in his head. Harry lets him believe it.

After that, Harry tends to keep his eye on Zayn. The music swells and the lights are low, so it’s hard to make him out the whole time. He clings to Louis for most songs, makes sure Niall holds him up on his back when he jumps on him, and kisses Liam’s reddened cheeks whenever Liam starts spouting off about how fucked up he is. Harry stupidly let Liam into his coke stash, and Liam The Joker has come out to play, clearly. But Zayn doesn’t venture close to Harry much at all, except to whisper to him about his bong, wondering if Harry brought it with him in his Tom Ford duffle. Harry did, and they all get a kick out of it, a little group of seniors who congregate together to get even higher. To go further.

It’s not clear to Harry why Zayn is acting so weird, so off, until Jessica gets up to make a “speech.” She stops the music and props herself up on a chair, wobbles a bit, until Kim comes to her aid and holds her hand to keep her steady.

“To all my friends,” she hiccups slightly, “this party is for you.”

“Mine too!” Kim intones with a laugh, which has all the sophomores cheering for her.

“But especially to the seniors,” Jess reprimands her sister slightly, petting at her hair, “because we’re almost done with this place and we gotta leave soon. So let’s keep living it up, guys. Let’s make the most out of this spring and have fun and really be good to each other. Fifty-six and counting!”

Kim raises a bottle of rum and clinks it against Jessica’s Solo cup, the two of them giggling, as the room cheers.

Harry, over in the corner near the alcohol again, smiles at the sentimentality. The Malone sisters have always been close, have always been a united front while at F.M. together. They’re supportive and always the first ones to cheer each other on in front of the school, whether it be Jessica’s dancing or Kim’s art. It’s sweet.

That’s when Harry finally gets it though, when his eyes yet again find Zayn Malik in the crowd. He stands there near Amy and her friends, his hands down at his sides holding two drinks, as he stares at Jessica and Kim hugging a few other girls. He looks sad, completely distraught, his hair a mess and his face fallen. He curls in on himself, in his YSL jacket and last season’s Balmain jeans.

Harry blinks and then suddenly he’s moving through the crowd of students. He has to push a few out of his way, the middle of the dance studio crowded with dancing bodies, high as kites. He finally gets to Zayn, where he still hasn’t put back on his face of bravado and strength, to where he still stands stock still like he’s seen a ghost.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry gets close, whispers in his ear.

“About what?” Zayn slurs worse than Harry's ever heard him.

“Come on,” Harry grabs for his drinks, disposes of them on the piano, and pulls him by the hand towards the exit.

Without a second thought about if anyone is watching, he pulls Zayn all the way through the dance wing, past the band room and other small rehearsal studios, all the way to the back of the Bannon building. That’s where the music studio is, the one with a real studio sound board and everything. Supposedly some pop musician in the nineties made his entire album in the F.M. studio, since it was his alma mater. Harry forgets the guy’s name.

“Where’re we going,” Zayn slurs once more, as Harry jostles him into the recording space and shuts the door behind them.

“Here.”

The room is small, just enough space for a music stand, a plush armchair, and a mic hanging in the middle of it. On the other side of the glass is where the producers and writers would sit, behind the board, to overlook the performer standing at the mic. It’s perfectly quiet and far away from the party.

“Why?” Zayn wonders as he pokes his finger at the plush mic near their heads.

“You look like you need to talk,” Harry says in a quiet voice, now that they’re alone in the soundproof room. “Like… I don’t know, you’re upset.”

“M’not upset,” Zayn sighs, moving Harry towards the corner of the studio space to crowd him up against the wall. “See?”

Harry lets himself be manhandled slightly, as Zayn plants him there up at the wall with his hands on either side of his head. Zayn stares at him, stares right through him, like he really does want to talk, but doesn’t know what to say. And instead of trying to figure it out, he does what they do best, and kisses Harry until he’s breathless.

Harry goes with it at first, kisses back just as harshly, his hands on Zayn's slender hips. He feels Zayn press up against him from shoulder to toe, their bodies in sync, as they both start to firm up in their boxers.

But it’s not right, Harry can feel it. There’s something bubbling beneath the surface.

“Wait, babe,” he presses a hand to Zayn's chest and pushes him back slightly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” Zayn says innocently, like a child who has a secret.

“Zayn.”

Zayn sighs and rests his forehead on Harry's shoulder. He inhales and exhales deeply a few times, as a true drunk tends to, and Harry almost wonders if he could fall asleep right then and there, dead on his feet. _Come on, just say it. Let it out._

“What’s going on in there?” Harry tries again, his fingers tapping at Zayn's temple lightly.

Zayn leans back and looks at Harry, his eyes blood shot and watery.

“I miss home,” he admits with an aching frown, his face falling like it did before in the middle of the party. “I miss all of them.”

Harry's heart breaks in his chest, his stomach clenches up, at the thought. Zayn misses his family, his sisters and his pets and his home. He’s been away from them all year, hasn’t been to his house once to see his family or check in. Harry knows they don’t talk, he’s not supposed to contact any of them until it all “dies down.” And even though Harry doesn’t have a big family like Zayn does, and he doesn’t know what it’s like to be close to anyone besides Gemma, he feels the heartache down somewhere deep.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Harry tries to comfort him, his thumb running along Zayn's cheekbone. “I’m really sorry.”

“S’not your fault,” Zayn sniffs, turning his head to kiss the inside of Harry's palm.

“I know, but still. I just wish… I wish it were different.”

“Me too.”

“I wish you could call your sisters at least.”

“Me too,” Zayn sighs, coming down from his drunken high. “It’s just been really, really hard to do this without them this year. To… have my dad know about me, and then to have none of them know why exactly I got kicked out. Just that I was ‘bad,’ you know?”

Harry frowns at the implication of it being bad to be who they are. It’s fucking ridiculous, is what it is. And if Harry could muster up the courage to talk some serious shit about Zayn's dad, he would. But he knows Zayn isn’t even angry with his dad for his backwards views; he’s just sad.

“I wish I could make you feel better,” Harry says.

“You already are,” Zayn smiles ruefully, before leaning in to kiss Harry once more.

This time Harry goes with it, now that Zayn has gotten it out. He tastes the tequila on Zayn's tongue and his knees almost buckle it’s so good. There’s something about Zayn pressing up against him that makes his entire body feel like a wet noodle, all strung up and awkward trying to stand up straight.

It turns heated rather quickly, just as it always does. Instead of kissing just to kiss, it’s kissing with clear intent. Harry knows one of them is about to end up on their knees, and he honestly can’t decide which side he wants to be on. Having Zayn give up his mouth to him is like heaven on earth. And yet the scratch of the carpet on his bare knees, the feel of weight on his tongue, Zayn making those delicious sounds of his, it all seems like such a good idea.

Zayn has other plans.

“You know what I was thinking,” he slurs only slightly now, the alcohol still sizzling a bit in his veins.

“What?” Harry asks breathlessly, his mouth so wet he has to suck his lip in to lick it off. _Me on my knees? You on yours? Both of us, one after the other, take the edge off, make it hurt a little?_

Zayn, with his hands on either side of Harry's head again, just stares him down. Harry preens under his gaze, his face suddenly red at all of the undivided attention. He feels like he’s been caught with his hand in his pants, like he’s embarrassed and hot and turned on all at once. Zayn kisses him one last time and then grabs for Harry's hips. He turns Harry all the way around, until he’s facing the wall with his hands up on it, arms bent at the elbow.

“What…” Harry starts to wonder, confused at their positioning.

Zayn cuts him off by sucking a mark into the side of his neck, Harry hissing at the pain of teeth on skin. And then he wraps his arms around Harry to start undoing his belt, tugs his briefs and jeans down just enough so Harry's bare ass is out. Harry goes with it of course, but his dick is trapped beneath fabric and he still feels all confused and discombobulated and off kilter.

Zayn kisses the mark on Harry's neck until it’s not so red and angry, his hands running up and down Harry's sides, down to his thighs, and back up again. He presses his clothed dick up against Harry's bare ass and Harry almost cries out, he fucking swears it, it’s so deliciously dirty.

“Zayn,” Harry wines, unsure of what to do with his ass hanging out, his hands still up on the wall.

“Shhh,” Zayn responds, his mouth at Harry's ear. “I just thought…”

Then his right-hand snakes back around to Harry's ass and squeezes. Harry closes his eyes and tries to settle his breathing, so overwhelmed at the sensation of Zayn being so close to a body part that’s never been touched before, not like that. Never like that.

“You ever do this?” Zayn wonders, his mouth now on the other side of Harry's neck, at his pulse point.

“Do what?” Harry mumbles, his fingernails scratching at the fabric that lines the walls to block out the echoes.

“Touch yourself here,” Zayn whispers, his fingers abruptly between Harry's ass cheeks to settle in.

Harry inhales sharply, his forehead smacks against the wall.

“No,” he admits truthfully, because the thought has of course occurred to him since all this began. But he’s never done it. Never tried. Maybe he was waiting for a moment like this, with Zayn. Not alone, but with Zayn to help him through it.

“Not in the shower, maybe?” Zayn kisses his ear hotly. “When you’re all wet and clean and thinking about me?”

Harry's face scrunches at the pressure of Zayn's hand moving in, down, deeper. Until the pad of his middle finger meets his entrance, the place no one has ever been, not once, not even a little bit. Harry tries to breathe, tries to relax his lower half so he can press back at it. But he can barely think.

Until suddenly he _can_ think, and he whips his head to the side, to see Zayn eye to eye.

“Why, have _you?_ ” he wonders in a full voice, their noses almost touching. His eyes are fierce as the thoughts bash in his brain together all at once.

_Do you think of me in the shower, do you touch yourself there and use your fingers and come like that, all filled up and leaking? Do you do that? Have you?_

Zayn just gives him a knowing smirk.

“Fuck,” Harry huffs, turning back to face the wall again, his forehead against it. That’s enough to get him off, the thought of Zayn doing this by himself in heated moments. Slick fingers, reaching behind himself, jerking off while he did it. Harry shakes his head to stop thinking so loudly, his dick pressed up against the front of his boxers and jeans, and honestly, it’s bordering on painful he needs to come so bad.

“Maybe now you will,” Zayn whispers, pressing his finger in just slightly until Harry gasps.

Harry tries to think, tries to process. He nods.

“You will?” Zayn places another kiss to Harry's bruised neck.

Harry nods.

“Good, babe,” Zayn whispers again, his mouth hot. “I like that.”

He wiggles his finger until the entire tip is in. It’s dry and rough and it doesn’t hurt necessarily, but it’s new and different and surreal. But then all Harry can think about is the fact that there’s a part of Zayn inside of him, and that’s it, that does it. Out of nowhere and completely untouched, Harry comes.

He seizes up and tries in vain to hold onto the wall, onto anything, his fingers scrambling, as he comes as hard as he ever has in his fucking pants.

Zayn doesn’t laugh, he would never laugh, but he is caught off guard. He keeps his finger in place and lets Harry ride it out some, lets Harry push back against his hand and body while he releases into his boxers like a thirteen-year-old boy with a wet dream. Harry can barely keep standing, which Zayn must recognize, because he quickly slides his other arm around Harry's midsection to hold him upright as he seizes through it.

They don’t speak, they barely breathe, as the moment settles around them.

“Fuck… me,” Harry says more to himself and the wall than to Zayn.

Zayn does laugh then, at Harry's words, as he removes his hand from Harry's ass and hugs him fully from behind.

“You liked that, didn’t you,” Zayn says with a smile into Harry's neck.

Harry reaches a hand back and rubs at Zayn's hair, his eyes closed, sated and messy and a little on the right side of drunk. He can’t believe that actually happened, can’t believe Zayn initiated it after all this time. Zayn, as always, goes against every instinct Harry has for him.

Just then, the door on the other side of the glass begins to open. Someone fumbles with the handle, right as Zayn and Harry tense up and turn to look at each other. Harry pulls at his boxers and jeans, right as Zayn shoves them further into the corner, out of view from the other room. They huddle together, mouths shut, as another couple gets the same idea and begins to make out against the sound board.

Still drunk off his ass, and reckless as fuck, Zayn begins to laugh. It’s silent at first, just a shaking of his chest. But before long, Harry can hear the giggles escaping Zayn's beautiful mouth, the two of them pressed together in the corner.

Harry has to throw a hand up and cover Zayn's traitorous mouth, the more reckless of the two of them when he’s drunk. If he were completely sober, this would be a mortifying situation wherein he’d practically be in tears, for fear of getting caught with their pants down. Or in this case, with Harry's pants down. But this is now and Zayn had tequila and Harry's good weed, so he’s at the mercy of the high.

Zayn laughs into Harry's hand, his hands scrambling to hold onto Harry's shirt, as he falls apart in laughter. Harry shushes him, but can’t help but smile at it, at Zayn being silly and irresponsible and wild. This may be his favorite version of Zayn, even though he hates to admit it. Zayn would kill him if he ever said that out loud.

Maybe it’s because of what they just did, or maybe it’s because Zayn took a chance in opening up to Harry about how he felt about his family. But Harry is so overwhelmed with love and affection in that moment, he has to hold Zayn by the back of the neck and kiss his cheek.

They stay crowded together in the corner of that sound-proof room for another fifteen minutes while a couple of juniors make out just a pane of glass away.

They giggle the entire time.

 

\---

 

Harry comes down with the dreaded F.M. cold that’s been floating around, right before midterms start. He becomes a total baby when he’s sick: needy for attention, starved for chicken noodle soup, and annoyed at being cooped up in his room for three days. Louis makes sure to rub his feet, Niall is in charge of bringing the soup, and Liam makes him a roughly edited study guide for Psychology so he “doesn’t fall behind.”

And maybe it’s because he’s so sick and needy, Harry throws caution to the wind. Zayn is put in charge of cuddles, which Harry very distinctly says out loud to all of the boys that fourth day. He figures he’s sick, he can ask anything of his friends, and some friendly cuddling from Zayn wouldn’t look too weird.

Zayn just stares at him, unsure of if he should go along with it, awkward at first when Harry throws himself down onto his chest one night. He eventually gets used to it and pets Harry's hair over and over to soothe him through the chills. The boys don’t even bat an eye.

_See, not weird at all._

That’s exactly their positioning when the bomb is dropped on their little group, their little haven in Niall and Liam’s room. Zayn, on Niall’s bed with a book in one hand and Harry's hair in the other, while Harry lays across him and holds onto him for dear life. Zayn has perfected the art of laying just so for Harry to crowd up next to him and put his head on Zayn's chest, while also still reading his English Lit book. There in his glasses, his favorite black tank top, and joggers, he looks like fucking Adonis, Harry swears it.

While they wait for Louis and Liam to get back from dinner, when Niall isn’t looking, Harry moves his face so it rests just below Zayn's bare armpit. Even through the snot in his sinuses, he inhales Zayn’s pheromones, since apparently there is nothing about Zayn that Harry dislikes. Zayn has to whack at his head with the book to cut it out and get a grip.

Harry sniffles and then smiles up at Zayn. He ignores Harry entirely.

That’s when Louis and Liam make their loud entrance, babbling about god only knows what. Harry doesn’t pay attention and focuses instead on Zayn's rising and falling chest underneath his cheek, his face hot from a slight fever, his hands clenched together under the blanket from the chill in the room.

“Big news, boys,” Louis says as he flicks Harry's forehead to pay attention.

Harry howls at the pain, right as Zayn puts down his book and jokingly tightens his arm around Harry’s neck to choke him a bit, to be quiet.

“What is it?” Niall wonders for them, since Zayn just looks up at Louis with big eyes to wait for the answer.

“So the dance is in a few days once midterms are done, right? And the three of us,” Louis flicks a finger between himself, Niall, and Liam, “have dates, of course. Harold here unfortunately doesn’t have any male prospects. Sorry friend, wish we had more of your type here at school, but alas we do not. So that just leaves Zayno here.”

Harry tenses up slightly, tugging at Zayn's arm to let him breathe.

He doesn’t like where this is headed.

“We got you a date!” Liam practically screams, too excited to hold it in any longer, high as can be. He moves around Lou so that he can mess up Zayn's already messy hair, to congratulate him.

“A date?” Zayn wonders quietly, shifting so that Harry isn’t laying on him anymore. Like he needs to not be touching anyone at the moment. “Who?”

“Missy VanWhy,” Louis says proudly, puffing out his chest and crossing his arms.

“Oh shit,” Niall intones, also crossing his arms from his desk. “Missy is hot as fuck.”

“Right?” Liam claps his hands together, excited beyond words. “One of the hottest in the junior class.”

“She’s roommates with Danielle,” Louis reasons to Zayn as he moves towards Liam’s bed to perch on the edge of it. “I just talked to her in the dining hall before they went to study. She seems really excited. She thought she was gonna have to go alone.”

“Missy VanWhy,” Zayn repeats to himself, shifting on the bed so that he’s leaning against the bedframe farthest from Harry. “I mean… I didn’t ask you to do this, Lou. I didn’t…”

“It’s too late!” Louis throws his hand out to point at Zayn's face. “Don’t try to back out now. She’s excited, Danielle’s excited, and so are we. You need this, Zayn.”

“But…”

“You _need_ this. You seriously need to get laid,” Louis says with a stern, set face.

“We did say that this was our year, Zayn,” Niall reasons from his desk. “And you’ve seriously been lacking.”

Harry freezes beside Zayn, his entire body as taut as a guitar string.

_You’ve been getting laid just fine, you’re with me, you’re mine._

Zayn winces and scratches at the hair on his face.

“Yeah, but I…”

“No buts!” Louis yells, like the discussion is over. “You and I will pick them up together, right at eight so we can arrive fashionably late.”

Harry can’t believe they’re discussing Zayn getting laid by a girl. Zayn and a girl. Someone not Harry. He could cry, he thinks, as he sniffs something awful, makes a disgusting sound from his side of the bed, and wipes at his nose with a tissue. He tries to keep his face from giving it away, just blinks and listens intently as Louis, Niall, and Liam discuss the dance in detail, how they all can’t wait to have the girls dressed up on their arms, with Liam’s flask and Harry's coke to really make the night a good one. Zayn doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look over at Harry even once, even though they’re less than a foot apart on the bed. He doesn’t chime in to the boys’ conversation and he barely listens, if his face is anything to go by. He just stares at the floor.

“Harry?” Liam says, bringing Harry out of his reverie.

Harry blinks and looks up as they stare at him.

“What?”

“I said, we won’t leave you alone though, don’t worry,” Liam repeats himself, sitting on the heater beneath the window with a joint tucked behind his ear.

“We definitely won’t leave you alone,” Louis nods and smiles like a dad would: placating and slightly sad.

Harry sniffs again, his cheeks red from the cold and from embarrassment.

“It’s okay,” he says before coughing into his fist. “Maybe… maybe I won’t be better by then anyways, I can just stay in my room.”

“Nonsense,” Niall scoffs, waving his hand. “You’re going to the spring dance, even if we have to drag you there ourselves.”

“But…” Harry says, now his turn to “but” his way through the conversation.

“You’re going,” Louis says crossly. “We’re all five going, we’re going to have a good time, we’re going to dance all night long.”

“Yeah,” Harry says to his lap, tissues balled up in his hands. “You four with your hot dates and me, gay and alone in the corner.”

_Zayn and Missy, Zayn and Missy, Zayn and Missy._

Suddenly it’s all Harry can picture: Zayn and Missy VanWhy, the gorgeous junior with long blonde hair and bright green eyes, the over achiever who won an award for speech and debate the year before, who goes to Sunday mass every week in the chapel. She’s as beautiful and bright as they come, someone Zayn's dad would _die_ to see on Zayn’s arm. Harry should take a picture and fucking send it to him, Zayn in his fancy suit and Missy in her low-cut dress. She has good tits, she’d fill it out nicely.

“Don’t say that,” Liam frowns. “Just because you don’t have a guy to date doesn’t mean you would be alone in the corner.”

Harry just blinks at him woefully.

“Just because we’re all getting our dicks sucked doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun too,” Louis says with a shrug and a lame smile that barely reaches his eyes.

Harry's eye twitches at the thought of Zayn being anywhere close to alone with Missy while at the dance.

_No one sucks your dick but me._

Maybe Zayn thinks some variation of that thought at the exact same time, because out of nowhere, while Harry looks down at his lap like a lost puppy, he feels Zayn reach an arm out to loop it around his neck once more. He goes falling to the side, his face lined up with Zayn's until they’re cheek to cheek.

“It’s okay, H,” he says quietly, hand back in Harry's hair to smooth it down some. “Don’t worry.”

Harry almost shuts his eyes and sighs, almost leans even further into Zayn until he’s crawling up into his lap to settle in for a nap. But that would be too much, Zayn would kill him for it, so Harry pushes Zayn away and pretends to be annoyed by the interaction.

“No, no, it’s fine. Just leave me be, then,” he waves a hand dramatically, leaning back against the wall, rubbing at his nose. “I’ll just be the sad, lonely queer kid without a hand to hold.”

The boys don’t quite know what to do with that word, unsure of if it’s a slur or not, so Harry rolls his eyes and waves his hand again for them to continue.

_Act the part. Be cool. Don’t be weird._

Harry spends the rest of the night “studying” his math notes, resolutely ignoring the present conversation about the dance. He hadn’t given it much thought before Louis came charging in with plans for Zayn's date, _fuck me, Zayn has a date_ , and now it’s all he can think about. Before it was just another dance he was going to attend with the boys and a few of their girlfriends, nothing special, nothing to write home about. But now it’s a thing, a real thing Harry is going to have to get through, by sheer force of will.

He keeps thinking about how handsome Zayn will look, how he’ll dance with Missy and possibly kiss her cheek when he picks her up, to be polite. Zayn will have to hold his arm out for her to loop her arm through, to lead her around the ostentatiously decorated banquet room just off of Hagerman Hall, the one with all the hanging lights and spiked punch.

It’ll be a smaller version of senior prom, _oh god he’s going to have to take someone to prom too,_ with the girls in their semi-formal dresses and the boys in their crisp suit jackets. Harry really will be all alone, whether the boys like it or not, because at some point they’ll all pair off with their dates to slow dance, and Harry will what, stand there like a fucking wall flower?

Suddenly Harry wishes there was another gay kid at the school, even if it was some random freshman for him to date. To kiss another boy’s cheek, to dance and be gay in a room full of his peers. Even if it was just a platonic friendly thing between two gay boys without any other options, a night to relax together and _be fucking gay._

Harry is pulled out of his incessant thinking when he feels a tug to his hand. Hidden behind Zayn's legs, Zayn pulls Harry's hand into his lap and holds onto his fingers for dear life. Harry sort of can’t believe that Zayn would be so brazen in a room with the boys, but maybe he knows they both need it.

They lock eyes and Zayn looks upset, horrified, completely guilty at what he’s going to have to do.

In that moment Harry can’t be mad at him, he can’t be mad at all. Louis thought he was doing Zayn a favor, and Zayn can’t help but be well-mannered. He is a Malik, after all. Now that Missy thinks he’s her date, he doesn’t have any other option.

Harry nods and uses his eyes to say it’s okay.

_Just so long as you find me after._

Zayn blushes and smiles down at their intertwined fingers. He squeezes three times in quick succession, and even though he probably doesn’t mean it that way, Harry feels it all the same.

_I. Love. You._

Harry closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall to catch his breath. He still hasn’t said it to Zayn yet, not out loud, but he will soon. Maybe Zayn will say it back.

_You’re going to be the death of me, Zayn Malik. I know it._

 

\---

 

Harry waits for Jack to get fully dressed and out the door before he himself starts getting ready. There’s something to be said for putting one’s self together just so, staring in the mirror to make sure all the pieces are correct, alone.

He works meticulously, making sure to present himself as the best version of Harry Styles, as always. He needs Zayn to see a confident Harry, not at all worried, just another face in the crowd. A friend. Just friends. So it’s all about the presentation. Dress pants and white shirt. Cufflinks, tie, tweed Gucci suit jacket. He slicks his hair and uses the special Alice moisturizer.

It should work, because it always works.

But as Harry looks himself up and down in the mirror, he sees a gaunt expression, his face pallid, sweat along his hairline.

He looks sickly. Unhealthy and weak.  

Maybe it’s the remnants of his lingering cold. But maybe it’s something deeper than that. Something worse. Normally Harry thinks _look at me_ in times like this, when he’s off the deep end. _Look at me! I’m okay, see! Look at how okay I am! If I’m telling you I’m fine, then I’m fine! Everyone look at me, I’m the center of attention! And the center of attention can’t be anything other than a burning star!_

But all Harry feels is burnt out.

Instead of trying to course correct, to smile at his reflection and fake it until he makes it, Harry just frowns. He turns away from the mirror and leaves his room before he can think about it any further.

_My thoughts create my world._

 

\---

 

While standing in the corner alone, Harry reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and fishes out the small bottle of vodka he decided to stash there. Not sure if he could rely on Liam’s flask to last them longer than a solid twenty minutes, he brought his own rations, even though he hates vodka on its own. After probably failing all of his midterms from lack of effort, he needs it.

A song is playing by some band Harry should probably remember the name of, as he turns in a circle and takes in the room around him. The school doesn’t go as hard for the spring dance as they do with prom in May, but it’s just as finely decorated. Pink, yellow, and turquoise balloons line the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sloping lawn leading down towards the horse stables; streamers come down from the ceiling in big loops; and the tables flanking both ends of the room have large flower bouquets as center pieces. It’s a room bursting at the seams, full of teenagers ready for the upcoming spring break, ready to have a night of “supervised fun.”

If Harry had come with a date, maybe he’d find the whole thing to be lovely, a fun time, just another night of hidden debauchery.

As it is, Harry is as predicted: alone and wallowing. So he sees the entire affair as cheap and rather pathetic. He swore a few days ago that he wasn’t mad, wasn’t upset over the situation, and yet now he’s there, _here_ , in his good Gucci shoes and he wants to absolutely die.

Liam and Niall, with Julie and Ruth in tow, make their way over towards Harry once they all spot him being lame and maudlin on his own. The girls must’ve been forewarned by the boys, “Harry's going stag, don’t make it a big thing, don’t let him talk about it for too long, otherwise he’ll start pouting.”

That thought makes Harry feel like pouting, so he does.

He barely attempts to make conversation, as he pulls at his lapels and tries to hide the vodka at the same time, lest a teacher see it. He should participate, tell the girls they look nice. He should show a little excitement, should kiss Niall’s cheek, or hug Liam. Be normal Harry.

But he can’t. He can’t concentrate because it’s almost twenty after eight, which means Zayn and Louis are probably still in Danielle and Missy’s room having pre-dance drinks or maybe sucking on Harry's fucking ecstasy tablets to get their night on track. They could be sitting around on the girls’ beds, cuddling already, holding hands. Zayn's so polite, he’d hold any hand that grabbed for his first.

Harry finds himself grinding his teeth uncomfortably, so he takes another hidden drink of vodka behind Liam’s big head.

“Cheers,” Liam says out of the corner of his mouth, realizing what Harry's been up to. He reaches for his own flask in his back pocket and turns so they can huddle together and raise a toast, with Niall and the girls as their cover.

Another song begins to play, an upbeat track that has the entire junior class throwing their hands up. It must be their song or something.

Harry could puke he’s so over this night already.

So he takes another drink.

It’s not until three songs later, at eight-thirty-three on the dot, that Zayn and Louis walk into the banquet hall with two girls on their arms. As always, Zayn Malik takes Harry's breath away. He’s in a gorgeous new suit, a dusty rose color, with a white flower sticking out of his front pocket. He must’ve sent out for it, had his old stylist bring it in, since Missy is in a black and pink dress to match him. He smiles down at her as she says something to him, her delicate fingers digging into his arm, and that’s the smile that usually has Harry bending over backwards to make Zayn do it again and again and again.

Harry continues to grind his teeth, turning all the way around to face the wall to reach for his small tube of coke. He needs a little something extra to take the edge off, so he does three quick bumps from his pinky finger, before turning back around.

Niall, standing a few feet away from him, sees him and frowns.

_You must feel sorry for me being all alone, just like I said I would be. Thanks a lot._

Ignoring that look of pity, with his eyes crazed and blood shot, Harry scans the crowd once more for Zayn. With Louis leading the way in a classic black suit, the four of them have made their way over to the refreshment table. Zayn and Louis busy themselves with getting drinks for the girls, who have already grabbed hands and started whispering to each other. Probably about their gorgeous dates and where the night will lead them, maybe who gets the room to themselves to hook up in, who has to find another place to have sex.

Harry's eye twitches.

_He’d never sleep with you. Don’t even try it._

“Harry,” Julie asks him innocently, pulling his focus away from the scene before him. Harry blinks at her, as she says, “would you like to dance with me?”

Harry blinks again, looking to Liam who smiles encouragingly, clearly the mastermind behind the question.

“I’m good,” Harry ends up replying, his timing delayed by about thirty seconds. “I’m still sick anyways. You don’t want my germs.”

That’s a lie, he’s been feeling better since last night. And maybe she knows that because she sighs and turns back towards the room at large, her hand immediately finding Liam’s to hold on tight. Harry realizes then that Niall and Ruth are also holding hands, whispering sweet nothings to each other, and he has the phantom thought again that he could puke down onto his shoes right then and there. No one would even notice.

He takes another swig of vodka for good measure.

Another three songs later, Harry realizes that both Liam and Niall have yet to move from the corner. They haven’t taken their dates out onto the dance floor, or gotten them drinks, or mingled with anyone else besides Harry. And that’s even more pathetic, to force his friends to stand with him so he’s not standing alone like an absolute tit. So he shoos them away, promises he’s fine with his vodka, will come dance with them as a group eventually. Niall holds Harry's arm for a second, _are you sure_ , and Harry has to wave him off.

When he really is alone once more, Harry does two more bumps of coke, even without anyone to cover him.

_Getting reckless again. Oh well. Maybe Wallace will see me and finally have a stroke._

Maybe it’s because Zayn is too preoccupied, or his attention has been stolen away by a pretty girl with pretty tits. But Harry realizes Zayn doesn’t scan the crowd and look for Harry, not even once. He doesn’t try to find Harry's eyes, to commiserate about his situation, or roll his eyes at the absurdity of him having a date with a junior. Harry tries to convince himself of that, to really wallow in self-pity, that Zayn won’t even look at him. To really make Zayn out to be the villain of the night.

But he can barely even think that, when he knows it’s not true. Harry knows: it’s too hard for Zayn. To be here with a girl, to wish he was with Harry, his boy. Maybe he can’t stand the thought of even looking at Harry when he has to pretend so ardently to be straight. Maybe he’s just trying to make it through the date unscathed, and will find Harry at the after party in the dorms. Maybe they’ll kiss and everything will be alright again.

Harry eventually sits down at a table, hides himself behind a flower arrangement, and lays his head down on his arms. He has plenty of friends, plenty of people who he could go have fun with. Dance, hand out pills discreetly, kiss boys and girls on their cheeks just because he’s Harry Styles and he’s everyone’s favorite.

But he can’t. He just can’t.

So he drinks by himself, hides away, wishes with all his might that Gemma could be here with him. She’d have him by the hands out on the dance floor whether he wanted to or not, twirling him in a circle, like she used to when Harry was upset as a kid. _Let’s be happy right now, hmmm? At this moment in time, sunshine. Let’s pretend we’re at the top of the Statue of Liberty, you and me, happy as can be._

Harry's eyes go a bit out of focus, his heart rate skips a few rather important beats, which can’t be good. Everything begins to swim in and out of focus, and he knows then, that he’s done for. He’s beyond fucked up. Drunk and coked out of his gourd.

Just then, two freshmen boys saunter over to him like Harry's an old friend. They stand on either side of him and ask very politely for a joint, if Harry has one on him. And he does, because he always has weed on him, always, so he hands two over just to be nice. He doesn’t even charge them.

As they walk away, Harry realizes he had shifted his body just enough during the transaction that he’s no longer hidden behind the flowers. There he is sitting at a table, in full view of the crowded dance floor, a small bottle of vodka in his hand. He fumbles with it and presses it back into his breast pocket before someone sees, and then he looks up again to see Zayn staring right at him.

Zayn and Missy, in the middle of the dance floor, tucked together close for a slow dance to “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” His hands on her waist, her cheek on his upper arm where the tiger tattoo his cousin gave him sits. If anyone looked at them, they’d come off as a gorgeous couple. Probably the most gorgeous couple in the entire room. Effervescent, dazzling, two young kids on the brink of adulthood, holding on tight.

It’s so unfair that the universe decided to give Harry an 80s soundtrack when his entire world feels like it’s crumbling beneath his feet. Harry's favorite music, a beloved 80s ballad, playing in that cavernous room while Zayn stares right through him.

Harry suddenly has to swallow the hint of bile rising in his mouth.

_I want to be with you. I want to be the one you have to hold onto on a dance floor. I’m supposed to be the only one people see you with._

_But your dad is a prick and we’re not allowed._

_We have to be a secret._

_I miss you and we’re in the same fucking room._

In no time at all, Harry is up and off his chair. He stumbles forward like he’s going to push his way onto the dance floor, shove everyone out of his way, to get to Zayn. To pull Missy off, to grab Zayn by the back of the neck and kiss him, to profess his love in front of everyone. Harry could do it so easily, he knows he could. He could finally admit to Zayn that Jack has known all along and hasn’t said anything, because it’s not a big deal. He’s brave, he’s proud, he’s so fucking in love it hurts. He could do anything he wants, he’s not afraid, he’s not shy.

But the look on Zayn's face, the one of quiet anger, has Harry stopping in his tracks.

The bile really does rise in Harry’s throat then, more so than before. He can taste the hint of acidic vodka, can feel the saliva collecting back near his molars. So he stumbles to the left instead, away from the dance floor towards the far off hallway leading to the restrooms. The nice restrooms for distinguished guests, the nice toilets and the fancy soap, not the shit they give the students in the dorms.

Harry staggers into the men’s room and over to a sink. He leans over it, closes his eyes, and breathes deeply, trying to will away the impulse to vomit. He’s been thinking about it all night and now suddenly the idea of throwing up makes Harry want to curl up in a ball on the floor. He can’t give in, can’t let it happen or get the best of him. He can’t admit that the mere sight of Zayn with a girl can send him this far over the edge.

Maybe somewhere deep down Harry knew Zayn would come find him. Because of course Zayn would find him, he’ll always find Harry, wherever he’s gone off to. But it’s still quite the surprise when Harry breathes a final time, looking up into the mirror over the sink, to see Zayn standing behind him with big, doe eyes.

“You came really close just now,” Zayn says simply, his arms down at his sides.

Harry blinks.

“I saw you coming towards the dance floor, to come out there and what, throw Missy off me? Make a scene?”

“No,” Harry lies, his voice slurring and raspy from not using it all night.

“Don’t do that,” Zayn steps forward, the two of them still making eye contact only through the mirror. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You wanted to, I know you did.”

“So what if I did?” Harry finally whirls around so they’re face to face. “So fucking what? You get to bring a date and let her eye-fuck you all night, and I’m just supposed to watch?”

“Yeah, Harry,” Zayn says viciously, “that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

“Fuck off,” Harry hisses.

“I didn’t _want_ this. I didn’t _ask_ for this. You _know_ that. I’m doing this because Louis did it as a favor, he told Missy I would, I’m just being nice, you fucking dick.”

Harry crosses his arms, angrier than he’s been in a long time.

“You’re supposed to just get through this, the same way I’m trying to, and that’s it,” Zayn says.

“I’m trying.”

“No you’re not, you’re sitting in the corner by yourself. The boys tried to include you, to get you to have some fun, and you blew them off.”

Harry sniffs, the last lingering remnants of his cold making him feel even more off kilter. The alcohol and coke have sent him reeling, his eye twitches, and he feels himself reach his hands back to lean on the countertop. The remnants of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” drift in through the air vents, the sound far off and slightly haunting.

_Once upon a time, I was falling in love. Now I’m only falling apart._

Harry sniffs again and wipes at his face before a tear can fall.

“You’re supposed to be here with me,” Harry slurs even worse, blinking slowly, the bile making its way back into his mouth. “You’re mine.”

Zayn sighs and steps away back towards the door. He looks at drunk, messy Harry like he both pities him and wants to hug him, which has Harry closing his eyes, because he can’t decide which one is worse.

“Grow up, Harry.”

Harry's eyes snap open once more, only to catch the back of Zayn's pink suit as he exits the restroom.

It’s the second time Zayn has told Harry to grow up in only a few short weeks, and it’s not a good feeling at all.

 

\---

 

There’s a moment the next morning when Harry comes to, where he wonders where the hell he is. He tries to move, tries to open his eyes, questioning where it is he landed. The cramped couch in the student lounge? Niall and Liam’s floor? A dumpster behind the dining hall?

He’s on his stomach, still in his stiff suit. All he can feel is a scratchy surface beneath him, his cheek pressed into something soft, his toes wiggling around in his dress socks. He tries to blink the sleep from his eyes, but a blinding light sears his retinas, so it’s no use. He has to keep them closed. He can’t look around to discern where the fuck he’s waking up.  

“Hey you,” comes a soft, heavenly voice to Harry's left, followed by a few fingers running through the hair hanging over his forehead.

So that’s what woke Harry up in the first place, he realizes. The voice. He still can’t open his eyes, even when he really, really fucking wants to.

_I want to see your face._

_I missed you._

“Hey,” he croaks out instead, his voice shot to shit.

“Wondering where you are?” the voice asks, its breath tickling at Harry's exposed cheek, reading his mind.

“Yeah,” Harry croaks again, rubbing at his nose, the coke lingering just like his cold.

More attempts at blinking, yet still nothing. Harry still doesn’t open his eyes. He just stays put, keeps his body still, as Zayn brushes the hair away from his face. It feels exquisite, like something his mother might’ve done when he was little and feeling ill. Or maybe Gemma did it for him. Light touches, as light as a feather.

“That’s good,” Harry mumbles, his voice cracking slightly.

He lets himself feel it for a few more seconds, before Zayn speaks again.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’re in the library, babe,” he says with a slight chuckle, his hand still moving in Harry's hair. “You must’ve stumbled in here during the dance.”

Harry vaguely remembers that. He remembers going back into Hagerman Hall after their disagreement in the bathroom, heading straight for the corner again. He remembers polishing off his vodka, and Liam’s flask, in one fell swoop. Then he watched Zayn and Missy slow dance again to a shitty song he can’t remember the name of, before making his way out of the room entirely and wandering campus until he fell onto a couch, any couch he could find.

The library, apparently.

The last thing he remembers is kicking off his shoes and laying there by himself hidden in the stacks, with his phone perched on his chest, listening to “Alone” by Heart, like a fourteen-year-old girl after a bad break up. Because in his hazy, drunken mind, he thought it might be over for good. That Zayn finally tired of Harry and his drama, his childlike behavior when he can’t get his way. He reasoned with himself that Zayn wouldn’t want him around anymore, not ever again, sad, poor Harry with zero prospects in life and only a bag of pills in his pocket.

He remembers thinking about his upcoming spring break alone in Manhattan, how he’d probably have to listen to more ridiculous 80s ballads by himself, high as the clouds in Central Park. Alone alone alone.

_Til now, I always got by on my own. I never really cared until I met you._

But as always, Zayn found him. Zayn always finds him. In times of trouble or heartache, Zayn always comes after him. He went after Harry in the woods, followed Harry to the Jag that first time, met him there over and over again when their thing first started. He found Harry in the pool house to fix what was broken once upon a time, when they weren’t speaking. He even surprised Harry in the shower, to really show with everything he had, that he was in it all the way.

Harry still can’t open his eyes, but he uses all the energy he has to pull his arm out from under him, to touch Zayn somewhere. He ends up grabbing Zayn by the arm and holds on tight, until eventually Zayn reaches for his hand and holds it in both of his. He runs his fingers along Harry's palm and Harry loves him so much in that moment, he really almost says it out loud.

“Are you still mad at me?” Harry mumbles instead into the couch cushion. “Still hate me for being a jealous prick?”

“I could never hate you, babe,” Zayn says quietly, fingers dancing around Harry's neck now, probably to finally wake him up.

Harry feels like being a brat and keeps his eyes closed tight, since they’re hidden away from the world in the library no one will visit this morning. It’s too early and after a school dance. Their peers are probably all still asleep and dreaming. Harry wants to keep it just like this, with him comfortable and dozing, with Zayn sitting on the floor so close, touching him, calling him babe. It’s perfect.

Maybe they can pretend spring break isn’t happening at all, that the students aren’t leaving in a few hours’ time to go to far off places. Some of them going home, some going on vacations with their families, some venturing to Miami and Cancun together in big groups to party the week away with fake I.D.s and zero adult supervision.

Zayn sighs and presses at Harry's cheek, to open his eyes. To participate in their conversation for real. He must want to say something important.

“C’mon Harry,” he says, slightly amused. “Open up.”

Harry begrudgingly does just that, opens his eyes to let the light in, hissing away from it. He’s probably the most hung over he’s ever been: body dehydrated, breath rank, brain littered with last night’s shitty decisions. He almost fucking outed himself and Zayn on that dance floor; he had the conscious thought that it would be fine to go kiss Zayn straight on the mouth.

_My thoughts create my world._

His thoughts almost fucking killed them.

He blinks a few times and rubs at his eyes, turning over onto his side to face Zayn sitting there on the floor next to the couch. He covers his mouth as he yawns, afraid of what his breath smells like, and smiles when Zayn smiles at how much of a mess he is.

“ _My_ mess,” Zayn whispers, fingers tugging at the hair over Harry's forehead again.

Harry almost presses a hand to his chest, for fear of his heart leaping right out of it.

“I am,” he nods in agreement, sniffing the remnants of the coke away.

“I wanted to say… I’m really sorry,” Zayn says, moving closer to the couch to lay his head down on Harry's arm. “I’m really sorry for being angry with you. You… I know you can’t help it.”

Harry remembers their conversation in the stairwell, when he admitted that being close to Zayn is all he can comprehend some days. It’s all he thinks about, all he focuses on. _Zayn Zayn Zayn._ Them together. He can’t help the way he reacts.

“And I know it’s been really hard on you,” Zayn continues, kissing Harry's upper arm. “I know this has been fucking awful for you. And I want you to know that I recognize that and… I don’t know, hope you know that I appreciate it. I appreciate you keeping it close.”

Harry blinks.

“And for what it’s worth, I had a horrible time with Missy. She told me I was too quiet and I was weird when we danced those few times, I stepped on her toes, I… thought about you the whole time. Even when I dropped her off right after the dance, didn’t even go to the after party, Lou was pissed, and I… I kissed her cheek,” Zayn presses a finger to his temple, “but you were here all along.”

Harry blinks a few more times, almost leaning in to pull Zayn up by the neck of his t-shirt to kiss him long and hard. To really show that he gets it too, that it’s just as hard on Zayn and that he’s also sorry for the way he acted. To say thank you for keeping Harry on his mind even when Harry acted like a dick.

But Zayn beats him to it, he moves so that he can rest his forehead against Harry's cheek and kiss his neck. Just once, just a little. Also probably to save himself from Harry's disgusting breath. They both chuckle at the same time, thinking the same thing.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry sighs, eyes getting heavy even though he really should get up and go back to his room. His mother is sending a car for him in a few hours, to bring him back to the city for the week. She had told him Des would be out of town the whole time, which is the only saving grace in the entire situation. At least Harry only has to avoid his mother and her annoyed glares at his hair length, while he wastes away in the penthouse.

Realizing his thoughts have drifted off, Harry zones back in on Zayn sitting next to him. How gorgeous he looks in just a simple white t-shirt and jeans, his hair in his face, his eyes gleaming with some emotion Harry can’t place.

He narrows his eyes at Zayn, knowing that something is up. _You’re not telling me something._

“What?” Harry questions, as he fully sits up on the couch, rubbing at his aching head.

“Well…”

“Tell me,” Harry insists when Zayn comes to sit next to him, the stacks of books hiding them from any teachers that could wander in even at such an early hour.

And that’s when Zayn decides to shake up their entire relationship, the effects of which will ripple for weeks to come. Zayn turns his entire body towards Harry and grabs for both of his hands, holds them in his lap, as his cheeks pink up.

“I just thought… I could come to New York with you.”

Harry's jaw drops.

It literally falls, as he tries to comprehend that statement. As he feels it so viscerally, it’s like a sharp punch to the stomach.

New York. Zayn in New York. Zayn in New York with Harry, for an entire week, alone. Alone alone alone.

“Are you sure?” Harry can’t help but ask, bringing Zayn's hand up to kiss at his knuckles. “Aren’t you like… what about Lou? Aren’t you supposed to be going with his family to Jamaica?”

“I thought I’d go with you instead,” Zayn says with a slight shrug, his eyes set and firm. Like he’s decided something for himself, something he’d never dare admit even four weeks ago. Like maybe he knows he got mad at Harry for wanting to profess his love the night before, and instead got put down by Zayn in that bathroom. Put down for just wanting to express how he really, truly feels.

Zayn stares at Harry like he’s the only person who will ever understand him, like Harry is the brightest star in the fucking sky. Harry has that urge to kiss him again, to shove his tongue into Zayn's mouth until he’s hard and leaking there on that couch, hangover be damned, until he’s coming in Harry's hand.

But it’s not the time, not yet. They have all the time in the world. They have an entire week’s worth of time.

Harry suddenly feels giddy, his feet bouncing on the floor, his fingers tingling.

“I mean, the car will be here in,” he says as he checks his phone, “two hours. My mom, she said it will pick me up and then… back home, back to the apartment. My dad will be gone, and Gem won’t be around much, and mom will be working…” Harry babbles, shaking his head.

It’s all too much to process, that Zayn wants to come with him.

“Then I better go get my stuff,” Zayn says with that smile that Harry usually bends over backwards to get again and again.

“Okay.”

“Okay then,” Zayn pats at Harry's thigh, to get a move on.

“Holy shit, I need to pack,” Harry brings a hand to his forehead, pressing at the skin there. His headache is a monster, but he can barely pay attention to it. “I gotta see my regulars before they leave, I need to check in with Sebastian and Kash and Dominic.”

Zayn just chuckles at Harry being a busy body, at being completely thrown off by the turn of events. He pats at Harry's thigh a second time, to get up off the couch for good, so Harry finally does. He grabs for his shoes as they stand up together and start to head out of the stacks towards the west side of the library, to head back to their rooms.

Harry stops them before they can get too far. He brings a hand to Zayn's cheek and stares at him incredulously.

_I can’t believe you don’t care what the boys will think. I can’t believe you’re coming with me. We’ll have so much time together. We can be whoever we want to be in the city. No one cares who you are in New York._

_I love you._

_I can’t wait._

Zayn places his hand over Harry's there on his own cheek and smiles again, a small, timid one. Like he can’t believe it either. Like he can’t believe how brave he’s being.

“I’ll see you in two hours,” Zayn says, kissing Harry's wrist.

And because his thoughts create his world, Harry very nearly cries.

 

\---

 

Harry spent spring break of sophomore year out at Niall’s cousin’s beach house in North Carolina. It was the four of them, Niall, Liam, Louis, and Harry, since Zayn had to spend the week with his family in Italy. They had a driver take them down to the chilly beach for that week in March, with a bag full of pills, some liquor hidden in Nalgene bottles, and half of a tin of weed brownies. They partied all night with locals in the small town of Wilmington, got stoned all day while they sunburned, and emailed Zayn four times to say that he was missed.

Harry remembers standing on the beach one night after the boys had fallen asleep, his toes in the water, mind running a mile a minute about how happy he was to be there with his best friends. He was higher than he’d been all week, in a state of total euphoria, as he spread his arms wide and welcomed the night air to breeze through his hair. It was a moment of pure bliss.

That’s what Harry feels during the five-hour drive into Manhattan. It’s like he’s standing on the edge of the world, sand between his toes, arms wide to welcome the changing of the tide before him. Because the tide _is_ changing, it’s happening, something is _happening_.

Because he has Zayn's hand between his palms, their feet tangled together in the back of a town car, stars in their eyes at the prospect of the week ahead.

It’s real.

It’s a sense of change, of rebirth, there in that car.

_We can be whoever we want to be in New York._

And maybe Zayn feels it too, once they step into Harry's family home and Harry shows him to his room. His big, bright room with two big windows overlooking the park a block away, his king-sized canopy bed taking up a large portion of the space. Zayn takes it all in, his eyes wide open as he sees Harry's real life for the first time. The way Harry is when he’s in New York, a socialite brat with too many hundreds in his wallet. Zayn must sense the change in the air, the way they’re different when away from school for the first time together as a… couple, or whatever they are.

They end up staring at each other across Harry's huge bedroom, cars honking down below them, people hailing cabs, Harry's doorman welcoming his neighbors home. It’s like they don’t quite know what to do with so much uninterrupted time, so much space to fill up, so many memories to make.

Harry makes the first move, crosses the room to grab for Zayn and kiss the life out of him. Zayn molds right into Harry's arms, falls apart as Harry puts him back together, their tongues slick and insistent.

_We have so much to do and only a week to do it._

Zayn kisses him back harder.

 

\---

 

Without even agreeing to it or making plans out loud, somehow they find themselves out at a nice restaurant that night. It’s like they both knew to shower, get dressed to the nines, and head out at nine o’clock on the dot. Harry waved to the new doorman as he lead Zayn out the front door with a hand on his lower back, towards the corner to hail a cab.

They look immaculate in their button ups and jackets, Harry's a soft grey YSL and Zayn's a new black leather Saint Laurent, and Harry knows people are staring at them. Two young men, gorgeous beyond belief, walking through the restaurant to a back table. People probably think they’re important, older looking than their ages suggest, rich and smart and going places. Harry even smirks at a passing table of senior women out on the town, their eyes wide, because he’s there with someone as beautiful as Zayn. _You wish, ladies._ They’re seated and served red wine, the waiter not even blinking when Harry orders it, in under six minutes.

Harry raises his glass to give cheers, so Zayn clinks their glasses together and takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Harry's. As always, it makes Harry's face go red, his face hot with want, at all of Zayn's undivided attention.

It’s a normal dinner between the two of them, Zayn with his chicken, Harry with his steak. They talk about school and the boys, the upcoming party Harry wants to throw once spring break is over, after their first full week back. Apparently Gemma has something new for him, another new addition to his collection, which Harry needs to pick up before they leave the city.

Once their plates are cleared away, Harry looks above them at the vaulted ceiling as his mind wanders, wondering what else they’ll do with their night, where else he can take Zayn. There are so many possibilities. The new bar in SoHo Gemma took him to that one time. Or maybe to the roof of his building, to smoke and sit under the sky. They could go for a walk around the city, to nowhere in particular, just the two of them out and about because they can.

That’s when Harry feels it under the table. Zayn's foot lightly up against his own, to pay attention and be present. Harry brings his eyes back down to meet Zayn's, pressing their feet together firmly.

Harry does that thing where he bites at his finger and smiles at the same time, as he stares at Zayn, as Zayn stares back. It’s a moment between them, heated somehow, but not in the way Harry expects it to be. Because surprising him, with only a quick glance around them, to check like Zayn normally does, Zayn lays his hand down on the table, palm up.

An invitation.

Harry then bites his lip he’s so happy, and grabs for Zayn's hand. They hold each other’s fingers there on the white-linened table, for the entire restaurant to see. Because they’re in New York, they’re hours away from school and Zayn's family. They’re free.

“Thank you,” Harry actually says out loud, his eyes slightly watery.

But Zayn shakes his head and squeezes Harry's fingers three times in quick succession.

_I. Love. You._

Harry's still not sure if that’s what Zayn means by it, but that’s certainly how Harry takes it. And as always, it leaves him spiraling up towards the ceiling, his heart fit to burst. Of course, that’s right when the waiter walks back up to the table, to ask them if they need anything else or would like the check.

Like second nature, Harry begins to pull his hand away. To hide, to pretend like they’re just friends, to be straight as an arrow.

But Zayn won’t let his hand go, holds on tighter, and smiles up at the waiter.

“Babe, did you want dessert?” he turns to Harry and asks.

Harry, dumbfounded, just shakes his head no. He thumbs at Zayn's hand and shakes his head more firmly, because no he does not want dessert. He wants to go home, to his bed, to share it with Zayn for the first time. He wants to get out the condoms and lube he’s had stashed in his bag since Christmas, just in case, _you never know what could happen_. Harry wants to go home.

Zayn must read Harry's mind because he smirks and rubs at the hair along his jaw, before asking the waiter for the bill.

They make out the entire cab ride home.

 

\---

 

For some reason, and Harry's not sure why, he can’t really look at Zayn at the moment. It’s like once they’re in his bedroom again, bellies full of food and wine, standing there awkwardly, Harry can’t face Zayn at all.

While Zayn undresses next to his suitcase, Harry resolutely does not look and busies himself with lighting candles. He has candles all around his room: on his bedside tables, up on his dresser, on every shelf of his numerous book shelves along the far wall. His hand shakes the entire fucking time, which is beyond embarrassing, and he prays Zayn won’t see it.

Then, once he can tell from the sounds over his shoulder that Zayn is in his pajama bottoms, he straightens the pillows on the window seat. Then he adjusts the curtains on either side of the wall of windows and gets down on his hands and knees to pick at a few specks of dust near his closet even though Agnes cleaned the entire room before he got home, because she knew he needed it to be clean. He resolutely ignores Zayn there in his room, too nervous to even comprehend where Zayn's head is at.

“Harry,” Zayn's voice finally drifts over to him, when he’s organizing the shirts he brought from school onto his chaise lounge.

“Yeah,” Harry coughs into his fist, moving the blue shirt to the top of the pile, before refolding the Van Halen t-shirt he found somewhere in the Meatpacking District when he was fourteen, the one he let Zayn wear to bed once.

_Fuck, he looked so good that night. He looks good every night._

“Babe,” Zayn's voice comes at him softer, but closer now, right over Harry's shoulder.

Harry feels Zayn's hands wind around his waist and pull him upright, until they’re standing together, Harry's back up against Zayn's chest. Harry closes his eyes and tries to breathe, winding another t-shirt in his hands.

He still hasn’t changed out of his nice jeans and suit jacket, the fabric feeling all wrong up against Zayn's bare chest and cotton bottoms. None of it feels right, they’re on uneven footing, Zayn relaxed and ready to get into bed, whereas Harry is still stressed, tightly wound, his shoes still on.

Zayn kisses Harry's neck and runs his hands under Harry's jacket to feel at his crisp shirt. He noses at Harry's hair and inhales, like Harry's the most delicious thing in the world, and it makes Harry's knees buckle.

He then says the words that finally make Harry deflate like a balloon.

“I’m nervous too,” Zayn admits in a whisper, lips against Harry's ear.

Maybe that’s all Harry needed to hear, such a simple phrase that means they both know what’s about to happen, and how fucking huge it is.

They’re alone, really and truly alone if the empty sounds of the apartment are anything to go by. It’s so late, the staff isn’t on anymore and his mother is probably off at another gala for orphaned animals. They’re in the city, away from Zayn's complicated life, away from their prying classmates with all their secrets.

Harry has condoms and lube in his bag and Zayn pressing a hand to his stomach.

It’s real.

So Harry inhales and exhales a deep breath, before tossing the shirt to the floor and turning in Zayn's arms so they can face each other. He finally deflates enough, his guitar string body not as taut, and it has Zayn smiling at him, so fucking sweetly it practically hurts Harry's teeth.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Harry hears himself ask, the question apparently having a mind of its own. Harry wasn’t even aware that it was something he was nervous about, until suddenly he is.

_I can’t stand the thought of you hating what we did in the morning. I can’t handle it if you regret this once we’re done. You’re gay and you’re about to be really fucking gay._

Zayn thumbs at Harry's cheeks, his eyes roaming across Harry's broad face.

“I think deep down, I’ve been ready since that first night in the Jag,” he says with a slight shrug. “I think I always knew I wanted to end up here. Somehow.”

Harry gapes at that.

“Really?”

“Do you remember what you said to me? That night?” Zayn says, moving them closer to the bed.

Harry lets himself be walked backwards, kicking his shoes off as they go. He stares at Zayn and waits for him to continue.

“You opened your jeans,” Zayn smiles, moving Harry's jacket off his shoulders, “and you said, ‘if you want to go, then go.’”

Harry remembers that. He remembers making a decision for himself, and for Zayn, by pushing them off a fucking cliff. He undid his jeans and zipper, pulled his cock out right then and there, and gave Zayn the out, if he wanted one. But Zayn stayed put, Zayn didn’t flee or scream at him. He stayed and listened. He was right there.

Harry nods for him to keep going, to keep talking, because if Zayn is still talking, Harry can have another few minutes to psych himself up, about to make the biggest leap possible.

“And I didn’t go. I didn’t want to go. Because even though I was fucking scared and guilty and fucked up in the head, I knew. I really think I knew then that it was going to be something. You and me.”

“You did?”

“I know I ran away afterwards. I ran like a fucking coward so many times. But… I think it’s because I knew that we would end up here. That’s why I was so afraid.”

Harry gulps as Zayn starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, one after the other, from top to bottom.

 “So just know,” Zayn continues, kissing each of Harry's cheeks, “that you’re not the only one who is nervous. I’ve been nervous since that first night in the Jag, and every night since. Because I knew we’d be here, someday.”

“You and me,” Harry hears himself repeat Zayn's words, the words he’s used a few times now, right as Zayn pushes the shirt from his shoulders and drops it to the floor.

They’re both shirtless then, hands on each other’s waists, just waiting for the next move. Harry isn’t sure what to do, how to do this, since it’s brand new territory. He’s slept with so many girls since his first time with Dalia freshmen year, and he’s never been nervous.

He’s also never been in love.

Zayn leans in and kisses him swiftly on the mouth, his hand now on the back of Harry's head to hold it tenderly. Harry melts into him, wraps his arms around Zayn's middle until they’re fully chest to chest. They kiss, Harry moaning slightly at how good it is, how good it’s always been between them. Zayn's mouth alone gets him off, makes him want to scream and come and jump from the fucking roof to see if he’d fly.

Harry thinks they’ll kiss for all eternity, with the way they’re going. Maybe Zayn really is nervous, maybe he needs to settle something inside himself to get just as psyched as Harry. Maybe he too is considering, wondering, how this will work exactly and needs the extra time to really think.

They’ve never explicitly talked about it, is the thing.

So Harry presses a hand to Zayn's chest so their mouths can part, the both of them breathing heavily.

“What?” Zayn questions, his eyes nervous.

“I just… how do I…”

Zayn, still confused, shrugs in question.

“What?”

“How do you…” Harry asks, wiping at his mouth with shaking fingers, his face screwed up, “want me?”

Zayn gets it then, the silent string of questions Harry is really asking.

_Which side of this am I on? Give or receive? What do I do? Am I gonna be good at it?_

Harry's cheeks flare red, embarrassed at having to ask. To wonder how this will go, instead of letting it happen organically. It’s just that he read a few blog posts, checked out Reddit, and technically both partners should go into it knowing full well how to do it. Who tops, who bottoms. Open communication.

Zayn thumbs at Harry's bottom lip, lets it catch on his nail. He’s so good at knowing what Harry needs.

“How do _you_ want it?” he asks, his other hand gripping Harry's hip. “What have you thought about?”

Harry, still red faced, dips his head down to look down at their feet. He’s thought about it so many times, he’s lost count. How they’d do it, how it would feel. He’s tried to picture it both ways, has touched himself thinking of both ways. But… if he’s honest, he really has wanted Zayn to be his true “first.”

Zayn on top of him, pressing him into a mattress with insistent hips. Instead of just the tip of Zayn's finger, he wants Zayn entirely inside of him. He wants Zayn to fuck him, be completely ravished, with Zayn's face huffing short breaths into his neck like he can’t help it. He wants Zayn to sweat through it, to move his hips until Harry is crying out, the feel of pressure and pain and fullness.

Zayn grips him by the chin to pull his face back up so they can look at each other.

“You wanna show me?” Zayn says quietly, saving Harry from having to say the words out loud.

_You’re the only person on the fucking planet who gets me._

Harry nods and kisses him again.

He kisses Zayn until Zayn has to grab for his head to keep it steady, since he can’t stop moving, kissing, biting Zayn's mouth. Harry scrambles for the hand Zayn has on his hip and instead moves it behind him, to place it on his own ass.

Zayn stills for a moment. And then he gets it. He grabs Harry's ass through his jeans and kisses harder, now that he knows what to do. What they’re going to do.

“Off,” Zayn pants against Harry's mouth, pulling him in by the belt loops.

Harry nods into the kiss and goes for his fly, tries with all of his might to take his jeans off without falling over onto the fucking floor. He hurries and has his jeans and boxer briefs off in three seconds, followed by his socks, never breaking apart their mouths.

Harry's suddenly naked, his hard cock leaking against Zayn's pajama pants. Harry makes the same motion to Zayn, to take them off, tugging them down. But Zayn doesn’t move to do it, doesn’t let Harry's face go, just kisses and kisses. So Harry has to do it for him, shoves Zayn's pants down until his fingers run through the rough, sharp hair at the base of his dick. Fuck, he loves when Zayn trims it.

Zayn keeps kissing the life out of him, their tongues in each other’s mouths, both making breathy sounds over and over. Harry can barely stand it, he can’t just let them kiss all night long, so he pushes Zayn towards the bed, their mouths finally breaking apart.

Zayn goes easily, smirking slightly, at Harry's sudden insistence to get a move on. He lands on the bed, sitting on the edge of it, as Harry stands in front of him with his hands on his shoulders.

“I have stuff,” Harry nods. “Just let me…”

He rushes to his bag in the corner where he has the condoms and lube, rifling through his toiletries, drugs, and hair brush. He had a box of condoms from the corner bodega downstairs and some brand of lube he’d never heard the name of before, Plush Velvet. It was supposed to be for “her pleasure,” which makes Harry smile as he makes his way back to the bed.

“Prepared,” Zayn says with a smile, examining the box of condoms intently.

“Always,” Harry rushes out, hand in Zayn's hair there on the bed.

Zayn plucks a condom from the box before tossing it onto the bed, the lube next to his left hand. _Fuck, we have to use lube. Lube is necessary for this kind of sex._ Harry read up on it a lot over the last few months, the ways in which it’s different from having sex with girls. He of course knows his own fucking anatomy, knows the mechanics of a cock up the ass, but still. It was a good way to learn about gay sex and how complicated it can get. He knows they really have to prepare him first, make sure he’s relaxed and comfortable, to get the “area prepped.” Like it was a fucking work station in a chef’s kitchen or something.

He also knows that it’s probably going to hurt like a mother fucker the first time, and if he actually comes tonight, it’ll be a miracle.

Zayn stares at Harry like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” Harry asks, tugging at the hair on Zayn's chin.

Zayn grabs for Harry's hand and kisses his palm over and over, their eyes locked. And because Zayn Malik can read Harry's mind, he brings Harry's hand to hold it against his chest.

“I would never hurt you,” Zayn says in a low, clear voice. “If it hurts, we’ll stop.”

Harry swallows the spit in his mouth.

“I know.”

“I want this to be good, so we’ll… we’ll do it so it’s good,” Zayn nods assuredly.

_It could never be bad with you. It’s our first time, it’ll be great._

“I know,” Harry says again, finally crawling up onto the bed to straddle Zayn's lap. He grabs for Zayn's face and kisses him, mumbles _I know_ against his lips three more times.

_It’ll be the best._

 

\---

 

Harry's mother absolutely detested posters and other childlike accoutrement when it came to her children’s rooms. In her eyes, she spent thousands of dollars decorating their home just so. And for her children to muck it all up by putting band posters or artwork on the walls, well that was just an insult.

When Harry was very little, his room was decorated to resemble a circus tent. The ceiling was covered with a huge big-top tent that tapered out at the walls, which were painted to be gold and red stripes. She hung up pictures of animals and Harry as a baby, but nothing off theme. There was even a small carousel for him to ride on, like you’d see at a real circus.

Then when he got a little older, Anne redid Harry's room to be regal and posh, just like the rest of the house. An oak king-sized bed was the focal point of the room, along with wall to wall book cases filled with books he’d never read, a plush armchair in the corner, and a table specifically for his grandfather’s old chess set. It looked like the combination between a bedroom and a study, in blues, greys, and browns. And she never allowed Harry to hang anything on the walls that wasn’t approved by her first: a map, photos of Harry and Gemma as they grew up, Des and Anne at a fundraiser.

So that left Harry to come up with ways to make his room his own, when he was thirteen and feeling rebellious. He would get smaller printed band posters to hang on the underside of his canopy bed, safety-pinned to the fabric itself, so no one could see.

He had so many phases those next two years, with boy bands and metal bands alike. He had Britney Spears up there at one point, and then a picture of Megan Fox in some strappy dress. He also had a signed picture of Derek Jeter once, after he met him with his two most prominent older cousins after a Yankees game. Harry remembers staring at Derek’s face every so often when jerking off, and honestly, how did he not know sooner he was into guys?

Harry lays there in his bed now, the canopy of his bed completely blank of posters and photos. Now it’s just the fabric his mother picked out, a pale grey that flutters down on all four sides of the bed. He remembers that old picture of Derek Jeter and smiles.

“What’re you smiling at?” Zayn says next to him, his fingers running through the hair leading from Harry's belly button down to his groin.

“Just that I’m really, really gay,” Harry smiles harder, reaching a hand up to grab Zayn by the hair.

“Well I should hope so,” Zayn says as he crowds up closer to Harry and stares down at him as their legs intertwine. “Otherwise we’re in trouble.”

Harry snorts a laugh and kisses Zayn again, their noses bumping together.

It was like once Harry crawled up onto Zayn's lap and proceeded to grind down on him, they were done for. They ended up laying down, Zayn on top of Harry, to kiss and kiss, just feeling each other’s naked bodies because they could. Because they had so much time.

Not one to wait long, Zayn couldn’t help himself: he practically vaulted himself against Harry until they were both writhing around on the bed, their cocks rubbing together until they were both coming at the same time.

It was heavenly.

It was also not what Harry had in mind.

Harry lays there with his hands up on Zayn's shoulders, as they kiss until it’s heated once more. Zayn pistons his hips down again, like before when he had them rub one off together. But it has Harry pulling back, so they’re eye to eye.

“Aren’t you… I mean, aren’t we…”

Zayn smiles and kisses the tip of Harry's nose.

“This is all part of it, babe,” he chuckles. “Enjoy the process.”

Harry pouts slightly, but goes with it. He kisses Zayn again, lets Zayn's hands roam his body from neck to cock over and over again. It’s all foreplay, it’s great, but he wants… something. There’s something tugging at the back of his mind, telling him they need to keep going. To keep exploring.

An eternity later, Zayn pulls away. Harry's not sure when it happened, but he glances down and sees that Zayn has the bottle of lube in his hand there against Harry's hip. Harry blinks at it because this is it. It’s time.

Zayn leans all the way back onto his knees, propped up over Harry's body, as his eyes wander. Like he’s taking Harry in, a boy, his favorite boy, in all his glory. Harry is never shy about his body, and he’s certainly never shy with Zayn. But now Zayn has a bottle of lube in his hands, and he’s looking at Harry like he could eat him up.

“Did you do what I said?” Zayn asks, moving between Harry's legs and spreading them slightly.

“What?” Harry mumbles, too overwhelmed at the fact that his knees are out to his sides and Zayn's right fucking there.

“Did you end up touching yourself? In the shower and stuff?”

Harry smacks at his forehead. He had tried it numerous times, to no avail. He didn’t end up coming from it, or even feeling what the big deal is about. It just felt… intense. Nice at times, but not the orgasmic sensation porn has shown him.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says with a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I… tried it a few times.”

“And?”

“And it wasn’t as good since it wasn’t with you,” Harry says with a smile, the cheeky little shit that he is.

Zayn rolls his eyes.

“That’s good though, babe,” Zayn says, leaning down to kiss Harry once more. “That’s good you did it. Makes this a bit easier.”

Harry almost questions Zayn, like since when is he some big expert in fingering an asshole. But then he remembers the drunken confession Zayn told him, about touching himself like that. And it has Harry breathing a bit deeper, thrown off yet again at how sexy Zayn is. How sure of himself he is. How Zayn was gay _way_ before Harry even thought about it. How Zayn is the one with experience in this, not Harry. Except for the few times in the shower and in his room when Jack was gone, this is brand new territory for Harry.

Zayn positions himself on the bed between Harry's legs, which _oh my god, I’m going to fucking die before this is all over._ He moves Harry's legs out further, before uncapping the lube and dripping a generous amount onto his fingers.

He kisses Harry's hipbone, right over the _Might as well…_ and then brings his hand down between Harry's cheeks.

Harry immediately tenses up, the cool liquid sharp against his skin.

“Relax, babe,” Zayn says into his other hipbone, voice wavering slightly, as if this is a bit too much for him as well. Showing his nerves again.

Harry nods.

And then, turning Harry's entire world upside down, are two fingertips at his entrance. Zayn must want to get him through it slowly because he doesn’t try to insert them, or breech Harry at all. He just rubs him there, rubs his fingers in circles around Harry's entrance to get him nice and wet.

Harry inhales and drops his head back to stare up at the canopy, no posters or boys to focus on anymore. He lets it happen, lets Zayn explore him for the first time, the feeling foreign and weird. It’s tentative at first, like maybe Zayn's nervous too because this is the first time he’s ever fingered anyone other than himself before. But soon after, once Harry feels himself start to relax into the mattress, his bones suddenly gone on vacation, it feels… nice. Like maybe this is how it was always supposed to feel. Soothing and a little rough all at the same time.

“You like it?” Zayn asks, his head popping up so that Harry will look at him.

Harry nods.

“You sure?”

Harry nods.

“Talk to me, H. You gotta talk to me,” Zayn asks, his upper lip sweaty and glistening. Like maybe this has been a lot of hard work for him, to go slow and make it enjoyable.

“I like it,” Harry babbles, head falling back onto his pillow. “I like it.”

Zayn takes both fingers away from Harry's hole at that, to slick them up again. And then he’s right back down there, his middle finger the most insistent. Harry inhales right as Zayn brings his other hand to his lower stomach, directly above his dick, and presses down right as the tip of his finger enters him.

“Fuck,” Harry can’t help but groan, his face tucked into his shoulder.

“Good?”

“Keep going,” he whines, because it really does feel… good. Different good. Like maybe it’s not what the body part was meant for, but maybe what it should’ve been meant for. Like something inside of him wants to draw Zayn's finger in further.

So Zayn keeps up with it, pushing his finger in deeper. He goes just as slow as before, maybe even slower even, and it causes Harry to widen his legs and place his feet flat on the bed. Like he wants some leverage to push back at the pressure Zayn is applying.

“Mmmm,” Harry can’t help but mumble as Zayn begins to pump his finger in and out, just a centimeter at a time.

“Good?”

Harry nods and mumbles again, probably gibberish if Zayn's quiet laughter is anything to go by. And that’s how it goes for another five minutes, just Zayn's middle finger inside of Harry, in and out, in and out.

It still feels rather nice, like he’s being filled up in a place he never knew was even empty. It’s like Harry was meant for this, to really feel it like this, because Zayn keeps pressing sweet kisses into his thighs and his knees, and it’s everything.

“More,” Harry ends up hissing, right as Zayn quirks his finger slightly, pushing into him at a different angle. It feels like Harry is right on the edge of something big, when Zayn does that, and he needs to follow through. He needs more.

Without being told twice, Zayn removes his finger slowly, only to replace it with two. It’s not that bad, Harry reasons, as he’s filled up again even more. Because he’s stretched just enough to make it feel like glorious pressure, and tight enough that it feels pleasurable. Zayn kisses his hipbone again, whispers how good it is, how good Harry feels, and Harry can’t help but bring his hands up to his own hair to pull at it.

_I’m being fingered open in my childhood bed, by Zayn fucking Malik._

It’s almost too unbelievable to be true.

Harry takes it for another five or so minutes, two of Zayn's beautiful, long fingers at once, pumping in and out. He’s used to it now, the stretch and the fullness in such a foreign place. He knows that when Zayn widens his fingers slightly, it makes his breath hitch. He knows to push down when Zayn pushes up, knows it feels the best when Zayn quirks his fingers in that come-hither motion he’s read about.

And just when Harry thinks that’s all there is to it, that this is all there is to feel when being stretched open, a bomb goes off in his lower half. Right as Zayn quirks his fingers a little more, a little deeper, Harry's entire body jerks off the bed.

“Fuck!” Harry cries out towards the canopy, pulling his hair so hard he feels tears burst into his eyes.

Zayn, surprised at Harry's sudden outburst, tries to hold Harry down with his one hand not inside him. He shushes Harry and stills his fingers, makes sure Harry is good, before doing it again. And again and again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Harry babbles to himself, his finger tips and toes sizzling with some form of energy he’s never felt before.

It’s different from an orgasm, better in every sense of the word. Because it’s not just a few seconds of release, the buildup making it worth it. Instead it’s a continuous wave of pleasure, a tingling in every extremity, his entire pelvic area on fire in the best possible way.

“I think… I think I’m,” Harry tries to get it out, that he’s ready now. He’s ready for the rest of it, for whatever else Zayn can give him. Because the bomb went off, he’s just full of shrapnel now, and he needs to come. He desperately needs to come.

Zayn gets it, he must get it, because he rubs that spot inside Harry a few more times just to make sure. Harry cries out again it’s so good, so amazing, so earth shattering. And then he’s suddenly empty, Zayn's fingers removed and up next to his head on the bed.

Harry realizes he had his eyes clamped shut, when he blinks away the tears and opens his eyes to see Zayn hovering right above him. Zayn, crazy eyed and overwhelmed, probably hard as a rock, leans in to kiss Harry back into the land of the living.

“Holy shit,” Harry whispers, holding Zayn by the jaw, kissing him over and over.

“Yeah?”

“That’s the most… it’s like…”

Zayn nods into the kiss again, his tongue hot and insistent. And in some far-off part of his mind, Harry thinks _I can’t wait for you to do that with your mouth someday._

At the thought, he spurts pre come onto his thigh and scratches at Zayn's back. They both are too hard up for this, too ready and willing, to just keep kissing. Harry pulls away and feels around the bed for the condom and lube. He hurries to shove them in Zayn's messy hand, eyes saying to get a move on, to do it for real now.

_Your cock inside my ass. Do it, babe. Let’s do it for real._

Zayn licks his lips and nods.

In a matter of seconds, Zayn leans back onto his knees once more and rips the condom open with his teeth. Harry can’t help but smile, since once upon a time he wondered if Zayn was good at it, when Harry worried if he only slept with girls, only dreamt of being with girls. Now look at them.

Zayn slides the condom onto his dick, which has Harry reeling slightly, at the thickness of him and _how the fuck is that ever going to fit inside of me?_ Zayn then squirts some lube onto his hand, slicks himself up, and then props himself on top of Harry, his legs spread wide.

Harry holds himself open by his thighs, and keeps his eyes down on Zayn's cock. He wants to watch it enter him, wants to see it happen in real time, to see if he can take it. If he can do it.

But after a few seconds, he realizes Zayn hasn’t moved.

“Babe, you good?” Harry asks him, looking back up to Zayn's face. His perfect, cut-from-marble face. 

Zayn blinks a few times, incredulously, like he can’t believe he’s there in Harry's bed after all. Like he’s dumbfounded at the present situation, two boys ready to be together for the first time. Zayn Malik, about to fuck a boy.

Harry frowns and holds Zayn by the cheek.

“If you don’t want to…” he starts to say, already beyond depressed at the thought of them stopping once they’ve made it this far. Because maybe it’s too much, too fast, for Zayn to go to New York with him, and hold his hand in a crowded restaurant, and kiss in the back of a cab driven by a guy from Queens who could see the whole thing in his rearview mirror.

Zayn told Louis he was going with Harry to New York, Harry Styles who just recently came out as gay, and now they’re spending a whole week together. Zayn, who was kicked out of his house for letting a boy touch him, and now here he is with a condom on, lube on his fingers, and a boy beneath him on a bed overlooking the park.

But Zayn shakes his head and snaps out of it. He zeros in on Harry's eyes, blinks away some moisture that has collected there, and sniffs.

“I want to,” he assures Harry, kissing his cheek and then his mouth for good measure. “I do.”

Harry kisses back, insistent, because he’s never wanted anything more in his entire goddamn life. He grips himself by the back of his thighs once more and nods. _Let’s do this. Let’s do it together._

Without any further discussion, Zayn grips himself with his lubed hand and guides the tip to Harry's entrance. He holds it there for a few seconds, lets Harry get used to the feeling of the condom and the warmed-up lube, the feeling of being full once more.

“Ready?” Zayn whispers, their noses practically touching.

Harry nods.

So he does it. Zayn actually fucking does it. It’s like one second Harry is laying there waiting for the big moment and then the next he’s full. Zayn goes so slow, so impeccably slow, that Harry has time to really think it over as it happens. Inch by inch, crawling at a snail’s pace, as he’s suddenly not a virgin anymore.

_Holy fucking shit, it’s happening._

Harry can’t help but tense slightly, as Zayn stretches him way further than his fingers ever could. He can’t help but wince when Zayn gets about halfway and starts asking if Harry is okay, if it hurts, if he should stop. Because Zayn must be able to tell that it’s a lot to take at once, his monster of a cock that boys in the locker room at school have actually commented on.

Harry takes it like a champ, he just bites his lip and nods his head every time Zayn asks if it’s okay. It fucking hurts, Harry recognizes that it hurts, but it also… doesn’t. It’s just that there’s something else happening, a lock sliding into place inside his chest that says _this is okay, this is good, this is what you wanted._

Once Zayn is fully inside of him and they give it a few minutes for Harry to adjust, that’s when it really happens. That’s when Harry actually considers them to be having sex, because Zayn starts rocking into him slightly. Just a slight shift of his hips, more pressure, movement that has Harry's head knocking into the headboard.

“Fuck,” Zayn can’t help but mutter into Harry's collar bone, his face a complete wreck.

Harry can only imagine how tough it is to be the one giving it, the one with the carnal urge to _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , to go hard and fast, to spread his seed or whatever. He can’t imagine how it feels to have his dick inside something so tight, so warm and wet, just wanting to be ruined.

It still hurts slightly, even as it feels good, until eventually Harry feels himself relaxing slightly. His legs wind around Zayn's waist instead of being pulled up towards his body, his hands are no longer in fists down at his sides. He has his hands in Zayn's hair, running up and down Zayn's back, his mouth at Zayn's ear.

“You can fuck me now,” Harry ends up whispering, his mouth too dirty for its own good.

Zayn's entire body tenses up like he’s trying to keep himself from coming. Harry smiles into Zayn's hair and nods _, come on babe, do it, fuck me_. So Zayn picks up the pace and actually does, he pistons his hips forward so that he’s truly fucking in and out of Harry. It still sort of hurts, Harry still recognizes it, but maybe it’s worth it when it also feels so good, so right.

Harry knows Zayn isn’t going to last much longer, he can feel the heat rising between them, can hear the sounds Zayn usually makes. And he’s probably kicking himself for it, thinking it’s too soon, that Harry will be disappointed. So Harry redoubles his efforts at scratching Zayn's back, moaning into his ear, telling him how good he feels.

A few minutes later, it happens. Zayn leans back and grips Harry by the hips, fucks into him with all his might, and comes into the condom. He grunts a few times, makes those absolutely delicious sounds Harry's come to know and love, while Harry lays there and takes it. He pulls at his own hair as he feels Zayn filling up the condom inside of him, and damn, isn’t that a weird sensation.

He still hasn’t touched himself, which Zayn notices right at the same time as Harry. Zayn breathes heavily and shakes his head, gets his wits about him once more. He pulls out even slower than he pushed in, to tie off the condom and throw it to the floor.

And then swift as anything, Zayn is on his stomach, pulling Harry's cock into his mouth to suck him off. Harry, suddenly empty, his warm, wet hole fluttering, sees stars up on the canopy as he comes down Zayn's throat out of nowhere.

It’s obscene the way Harry cries out into the cavernous bedroom he grew up in, the way his legs are still spread, the sweat drying on his forehead. It’s disgusting and beautiful at the same time, Harry's wrecked body and Zayn's hot to the touch chest on top of his as he lays down on Harry to catch his breath.

Their first time is about as perfect as it can get, Harry thinks as he runs his fingers through Zayn's hair.

Perfect.

 

\---

 

Harry loves New York in the springtime. Once all of the snow and ice is gone, when the trees begin to bloom and the people settle down into the season, it’s a sight to behold. The city feels like it comes to life again in the spring, all of its hard edges not so terrible. He can run in the park again, doesn’t freeze his balls off waiting for his Nuts 4 Nuts, and best of all, his dad is usually out of the country for weeks at a time. His “busy time of year.” So whenever Harry makes it back into the city, away from school, he usually enjoys it even more than normal.

It’s a gorgeous spring as they weave their way through the city, the two boys practically joined at the hip they touch so much, phones off and in their bags at home. Harry takes Zayn to his favorite places: the Museum of Natural History, to the top of the Standard Hotel to see the perfect skyline of the city, to the 23rd Street Lawn on the High Line to get some sun on their cheeks. All the while, they hold hands and kiss at every opportunity, which is sort of ridiculous and sort of amazing all at once. Harry can’t quite believe it, when they’re in a cab going south on Broadway towards a restaurant Zayn read about, that he’s there with Zayn Malik and the world hasn’t ended. It’s like Zayn is as alive as the city itself, his face open, his eyes wide, his mouth beautiful and plump every time Harry leans over to kiss it.

They shop for hours, see movies, go to shows, wander the streets of the Upper East Side eating ice cream cones, all the while avoiding Harry's mother, who they’ve only encountered once as they left the apartment. It’s amazing because Harry doesn’t have to filter himself, doesn’t have to remind himself not to touch Zayn, not when Zayn is so readily available to touch him back. They have sex in Harry's bed over and over again, even when the staff is on during the day and can probably hear Harry's moaning from the kitchen.

They’re so lucky to have the time alone, to really be themselves, and Harry can barely stand it.

It hits Harry the most when they’re on the subway one night, coming back from a comedy show near Hell’s Kitchen. The train isn’t as crowded as normal, Harry and Zayn have room to sit comfortably side by side, as random people around them read books, listen to music, and chat idly as they fly underground.

Zayn grabs for Harry's hand and holds it between both of his, as he tells Harry about the tattoo he wants on his leg. It’s of some of his favorite comic book characters, shit he and his cousin used to love to read together. Heroes and villains, the good guys fighting the bad guys, triumphing over evil. He gets so animated, draws it on his leg over his jeans with his pointer finger, all the while never letting go of Harry's hand.

Harry tries to listen, he really does, but he gets distracted when he looks across the aisle from them to see another couple holding hands. It’s two men in their early fifties, one holding a newspaper for the both of them to crowd over and read together. The one holding the paper reads it over the top of his glasses, as his partner kisses his other hand and perches his chin on his shoulder. Harry stares and stares, the two of them so comfortable and serene, until eventually one of them locks eyes with Harry.

Harry swallows the saliva in his mouth, suddenly overcome with emotion. The smaller guy wearing a knit hat kisses his partner’s hand again and nudges at him, to pay attention. The other man stops reading and cocks his head to the side, kisses the guy in the hat’s cheek, and wordlessly wonders what is going on. And it’s then that both men look over at Harry, both of their faces breaking into small, sweet smiles, as they see Zayn and Harry being openly affectionate together on the train.

It’s two sets of couples holding hands, gay men, being honest with the world about their intentions, holding on to the one they hold most dear. Harry nods at the two men, Zayn still not noticing that they have an audience, and then turns back to Zayn.

“I mean, I won’t be able to get it for a while,” Zayn laments, as Harry grips his hand tighter. “I’m still not supposed to… you know, talk to any of them. But I will. It’ll sort itself out soon enough and then I’ll be home and Assaf can do it for me no problem.”

Harry smiles at him, his eyes twinkling, as he senses the two men across from them go back to their shared paper, both of them a bit misty at seeing two young boys being so cute together. Maybe they’re both wishing they could’ve done the same thing, at Zayn and Harry's age.

“That’s great, babe,” Harry hears himself say, leaning in to capture Zayn's mouth with his own. He kisses him quickly, twice in a row. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Zayn smiles at him dumbly, like he too can’t believe it. Like Zayn is also aware of how huge it is, to be kissing on a semi-crowded train in front of a bunch of people. He squeezes Harry's hand three times, before leaning in to kiss Harry again.

They make out for a few seconds, as the couple across the aisle sigh and lean their heads together, smiling.

 

\---

 

The evening before they’re set to leave, Gemma opens her front door and Harry is immediately hit with the fact that she’s on a plethora of drugs. He takes her in, standing there in a nightgown, using too much mental effort to keep upright, the way her eyes are completely black, the sweat on her upper lip.

She hugs him to her chest while reaching behind him to grip Zayn by the jacket, shaking the both of them she’s so excited. She’s the only one who knows about them, and all three of them are aware of that fact, so she’s even more enthusiastic than normal to see Zayn standing there.

“Thank _god_ you’re finally here, I’ve been _dying_ to see you,” she says in a rush, moving away so the two boys can enter the apartment.

Harry goes in first, his fingers brushing at Zayn's wrist so he’ll follow. The place is an absolute disaster: clothes over every surface, furniture askew, the smell of burnt incense hanging in the air. The massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the street outside is covered by curtains, making the apartment feel stuffy, closed off, too dark.

Harry and Zayn notice at the same time how the glass coffee table has remnants of a recent party. Bottles of booze, a few pill bottles, a small mirror and rolled twenty, coke residue coating the surface of the table itself.

Zayn raises his eyebrows at Harry, but doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve called you a few times,” Harry says as the two of them sit down on the couch, moving a pair of tights and an oversized fur coat out of the way. Zayn pretends not to notice the lace thong hanging off of a lamp next to him, his eyes drifting up towards the lofted bedroom above them. Harry has to hold his hand and kiss his knuckles then, just because.

“ _My_ midterms have been this week, sunshine,” Gemma says with a _duh_ sort of smile, eying their clasps hands happily. “I’ve been studying like crazy.”

_So that explains it._

“Oh, yeah. Of course,” Harry reasons with her, nodding along because of course she’s been crazed. College must be a million times harder than high school, and Harry barely tries as it is. Gemma always did have better grades than him, always applied herself the way Des asked of them.

“So I’ve been cooped up here, only leaving for class,” Gemma says as she settles on the armchair across from the couch, holding her shins like she’s holding herself together.

Harry nods.

“It’s just been class and studying and cleaning and peeing and studying again!” she says with a big, booming laugh, her eyes bugging out slightly.

Zayn coughs into his fist.

Harry nods as Gemma continues to tell them about her classes, her friends at school, and how her Psych professor hit on her the week before, she’s almost certain of it. He was woefully out of his league, some older guy with a receding hairline and a wife to go home to, up against bright-as-a-star Gemma Styles. She also informs them that Marco moved out and she’s been living in the apartment by herself the past few weeks.

“But it’s been great, honestly,” she nods to herself, picking at a spot on her chin. “Sometimes a girl just needs to come home and take off her bra and be by herself, you know?”

Harry doesn’t know, but he nods and smiles. His sister is off the deep end for the night. It’s best to just let her go. It’s what she taught him, his amazing older sister, when dealing with someone on drugs. Just let them _be_ on drugs. No stress, no being a downer, no talking about big, bad wolves.

Gemma then asks Zayn about how he’s been, how school has been treating him and the boys, so Harry sort of zones out. He looks around at Gemma’s stuff, her little kitchen and cluttered table, her knick-knacks and mismatched furniture. He sees a mess, of course. But he also sees a future in a place like this. Like maybe he’ll have his own apartment like it someday, here in the city close to NYU, because fuck Des Styles and fuck Columbia uptown. Maybe he’ll move in to this apartment and live with Gemma, the two Styles siblings back together again to tear the city up.

Maybe Zayn can come visit. Maybe they’ll have weeks like this in New York all the time, cooped up together in Harry's bedroom, touching and touching, their mouths insistent and warm.

Maybe Zayn will want to go to school in New York after all. Maybe they can live together.

Zayn nudges his arm, snapping him out of it.

“What?” Harry asks, his eyes back on Gemma, who is staring at him excitedly.

“I said I have something for you, remember?” she claps her hands. “Remember how I told you I had something new for F.M., sunshine.”

Harry nods and leans forward, letting Zayn's hand go.

“You guys are gonna _love_ it,” Gemma says as she moves off her chair to crawl across the floor to the coffee table. She reaches for a box underneath it and presents Harry with a large bottle of what looks like cough syrup. “It’s amazing, let me tell you.”

“What is it?”

“Codeine!” she says proudly.

Harry sloshes the bottle between his palms, interest piqued.

“What, like the rapper drink?” he says with a sly grin, thinking of old Lil Wayne songs Liam used to play when they worked out in the school weight room.

“ _Exactly_ like the rapper drink!” she exclaims, moving off the floor to join the two boys on the couch. She shifts Zayn out of the way, shimmies her hips so she can sit between them, grabbing for Harry's hand.

Zayn peers around Gemma’s messy bun, his eyes uncertain.

“Mix it with Sprite or Mountain Dew,” Gemma explains, poking at the bottle. “The high is insane. You feel like you’re floating up to the sky, like you’ll never feel bad or sad ever again, and it’s so easy, so simple. You don’t have to drink a bunch and feel full or sick. You just… float!”

Harry nods and pockets the bottle in his jacket, making it bulge out some. It’s pretty large. He’ll have to try it first, of course. And he’ll have to be really selective with who he sells it to, he decides as Gemma tells him more about it. It’s strong even when mixed with soda, a pain reliever and party drug all at once. But it’s supposed to be great, she says. She insists it’s fun and the F.M. partiers will come to Harry in droves to try it for the first time.

Zayn coughs into his fist again.

“I’ve read about that,” Zayn intones, as both Styles siblings turn to look at him.

Gemma blinks.

“It’s super addictive,” Zayn continues, nodding. “It’s also a respiratory suppressant. It can cause you to stop breathing if you take too much of it. Seizures, too.”

Harry blinks.

Zayn's cheeks turn red as Harry and Gemma stare at him. Harry almost tells Zayn to get a grip, that Gemma would never give him something dangerous to sell. Of course it’s safe. Gemma wouldn’t have him sell something that wasn’t safe. _We take care of people._

But Gemma does it for him.

“Don’t you worry, Zayn,” she pats at the hand in his lap. “If you just have a little, it’s the best thing there is. No calories, easy high, fun night. You’ll love it.”

_See, you’ll love it._

Soon after, the two boys make their way towards the door. They’re set to leave first thing in the morning, Anne sending another car to take them back to school, back to real life. Harry can’t really bring himself to think about it too much, since it’ll be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do: going back to being just friends with Zayn Malik. Now that he’s had a taste of a real relationship, something tangible and solid between them, he’s not so sure he’ll make it out alive once back at school.

They head out to catch a cab, Zayn reminding Harry to be careful with what he sells to their classmates. Harry already has some heavy shit in his arsenal, to add more to it could be dangerous.

“You have to be careful what you’re mixing together, H.”

But Harry can barely pay attention. Because thinking about going back to school has him thinking about how many weeks are left until graduation in May. Only _weeks_ left to be together. Because then they walk across a stage set up on the football field, in caps and gowns, and then what? Where will Zayn go then, if he’s not allowed to go back home?

_Maybe you’ll come with me,_ Harry thinks as he grabs for Zayn's face to kiss him, to stop him from talking anymore about his drugs.

_Maybe you’ll go to school here in the city, with me._

_Maybe we can be together for real._

_Maybe maybe maybe._

 

\---

 

The next day, right as he finishes up packing all of the new clothes he bought, Harry turns around in his bedroom as he hears Zayn approaching the door, only to be hit in the chest with a set of keys. Confused, Harry hurries to catch them. He looks up at Zayn leaning there on the doorframe, arms crossed, happy as can be.

Zayn stands there in his custom leather jacket and black jeans, boots on his feet, ready to head out soon. He doesn’t look upset at the fact that they have to leave the city, that they have to leave whatever it is they started behind. He looks happy.

It’s a surprise to Harry, since he spent all last night and that morning thinking about how depressed he would be in about six hours’ time. How they’ll be back in their separate rooms, no more cuddling as they fell asleep, kissing each other awake. No more sex, at least not in the way they’ve become accustomed: alone, in a huge bed, surrounded by candles and Harry’s phone plugged into the surround sound speakers to play mood music.

Harry can barely comprehend Zayn's expression, can’t figure out what to do, when Zayn finally speaks, gesturing to the keys in Harry's hand.

“I thought maybe we could take the Jag back,” he shrugs, the mischievous little shit.

And that’s when Harry knows yet again, concretely, that he is ass over tit in love with Zayn Malik. Flawless, cut-from-marble Zayn, Harry's perfect other half. Because Zayn always knows what to do, how to guide Harry around in life, to get him from point A to point B unscathed.

Because Zayn knows: save the day, be the distraction.

_One of these days I’m going to tell you I love you out loud._

Harry looks down at the keys in his hand, his Jag keys, and almost starts to cry. Zayn really fucking gets him, on a level Harry didn’t even think possible. Harry was too depressed to think about their drive back, and Zayn decided to hijack it and steal the Jag back. _I don’t deserve you_ , Harry thinks to himself, sniffing.

Instead of crying, he looks up at Zayn once more, at the beautiful, calm expression lining his face, and quirks his finger for Zayn to come closer. They need to make the most of their limited time together.

They have thirty minutes before they absolutely have to leave, to make it back to F.M. before sundown, and lord only knows what they could get done in that time.

Zayn kisses Harry and they fall onto the bed in a heap, already scrambling to undo their belts.

 

\---

 

Foster Montgomery is bustling by the time they arrive back on school grounds. All of the students seem to arrive at the same time, as late as possible on a Sunday before classes start up again, well rested and carefree. The line to get in through the main gate wraps all the way around to the highway leading into the school, which causes Zayn and Harry to kick back in the Jag like old times and talk about the past week as they creep closer to the dorms.

Zayn reminds Harry of the time he came in the shower two days prior, when Zayn was behind him rubbing his dick between Harry's ass cheeks, which has Harry accidentally honking the horn in embarrassment.

Zayn just smiles at him and leans over to kiss him quickly before anyone sees.

It causes Harry's heart to somersault a bit, at having to be fast again when showing affection, but he doesn’t voice it. He just enjoys his time with his favorite person, there alone in their place once more. Harry even runs his hands over the dashboard a few times, in silent reverence.

They’re beyond excited to see the boys again, waiting to hear all about their trips with their families, to hear about who got sexted by their girlfriends while far away, who got the most sunburned, who missed who the most. They park the Jag in the back parking lot and unload their shit, hitting Harry's room first to drop his stuff off, and then up to Zayn's. They graze each other’s fingers while in the stairwell, which Harry considers to be their final act of rebellion for the week. He sighs and trudges on.

It all comes to a screeching halt, once they make their way into Zayn and Louis’s room. Harry, carrying one of Zayn's Louis Vuitton bags over his shoulder, walks right into Zayn as they cross the threshold, Zayn's body rigid and firm like he was just caught in some quick sand.

Harry blinks a few times, caught off guard to not be moving, before peeking around Zayn's shoulder.

It’s Zayn's parents. Trisha and Yaser Malik, in the flesh, standing next to Zayn's desk, Louis standing next to his own with a guilty expression on his face.

Harry inhales a breath and winds his hand into the back of Zayn's sweater, completely unaware of how to react.

Zayn's shaking.

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but Yaser holds up a hand to stop him. Harry's eye twitches so bad, his entire face moves with it.

“Say goodnight, Zayn,” Yaser says in a low, vicious voice.

Harry slams his mouth shut, right as Zayn steps away from him to shake Harry’s hand off his sweater, his cheeks red.

Caught.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this so far :)
> 
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